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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24658396">Indescribable and Unspeakable</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellalinguista/pseuds/bellalinguista'>bellalinguista</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Indescribable and Unspeakable Universe [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Grey's Anatomy, Station 19 (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Tragedy, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Hospitalization, Hurt/Comfort, Miscommunication, POV First Person, POV First Person - Carina DeLuca, POV First Person - Maya Bishop</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 04:14:30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>55,314</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24658396</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellalinguista/pseuds/bellalinguista</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>When asked what she enjoys most about her career as an OB/GYN, Carina tells them it is the indescribable feeling one experiences when, all of a sudden, there is a new human being - a brand new form of life - in the room with you.</p><p>There’s also the unspeakable opposite experience when you are a medical doctor: when suddenly, there is one less person and, despite your years of training, there is nothing you can do about it.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Maya Bishop/Carina DeLuca</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Indescribable and Unspeakable Universe [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1885594</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>318</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>642</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>When asked what I enjoy most about my career as an OB/GYN, I tell them it is the indescribable feeling one experiences when, all of a sudden, there is a new human being - a brand new form of life - in the room with you.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s also the unspeakable opposite experience when you are a medical doctor: when suddenly, there is one less person and, despite your years of training, there is nothing you can do about it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>In the years that I have been doing this, I have never lost a mother.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Not one.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Not a single patient.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But I have stared death in the face in my personal life - three times now, actually.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>All my schooling and medical training, I did in Sicily - in my hometown of Catania. All of it: high school, university, internship, residency - every single aspect of it. Honestly, I could have gone anywhere I wanted in Italy - or in the European Union, maybe. I didn’t bother to look anywhere else. I could have even dreamed about programs in the United States, if I allowed myself to dream, but it wasn’t my reality. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I needed to stay home. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I didn’t even dare to leave our corner of the island.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I couldn’t. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Since my mother left with Andrea, I have been my father’s keeper. I have been very open with you, Maya, regarding his mental health: undiagnosed bipolar disorder and he refuses treatment to this day. He thinks he’s fine; he refuses to hear otherwise despite </span>
  <em>
    <span>all</span>
  </em>
  <span> the signs being there. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Mamma</span>
  </em>
  <span> reached her breaking point when, one day, he operated on seven different people at the hospital, back-to-back, without a single break. No food, no water, no sleep. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Four of his patients - people - died due to his manic episode.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Four.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anyone else would have lost their medical licence, no questions asked. Anyone else would have been arrested and charged for this incredibly dangerous reckless behavior, but not him. Not Vincenzo DeLuca because he knew the right people. He had the right connections. He had been able to get away with it and was still able to continue practicing medicine. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And everyone knew. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I mean, how could they not?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hardly anyone mentioned it to </span>
  <em>
    <span>Papà’s</span>
  </em>
  <span> face; the few who did endured his horrible temper - it would set him off immediately. How dare they tarnish his name and research? Do you know how important his research was? And how dare you try to stop it over such heinous rumors? That’s what it had become to him - those four people who once had lives and families. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Rumors.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So people tried to say nothing to him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But to </span>
  <em>
    <span>me</span>
  </em>
  <span>?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The first time I faced death, personally, was the very beginning of my internship at the same hospital where my father worked in the city. It was also my first day ever in that hospital as a professional. It was my first day as being </span>
  <em>
    <span>la Dottoressa Carina DeLuca</span>
  </em>
  <span>. And on your first day as an intern, with the most intense imposter syndrome clawing away at you, it is very hard to convince yourself that </span>
  <em>
    <span>anyone</span>
  </em>
  <span> else in that building should be calling you something as important as </span>
  <em>
    <span>dottoressa</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Your own self doubt does </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> need further help from your colleagues.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Regardless, their help came anyway.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>We had just begun morning rounds that day - our </span>
  <em>
    <span>first</span>
  </em>
  <span> day. My colleagues, just as new as I was, and myself included hovered together in a group, being led by a senior doctor from bed-to-bed as if a shepherd herding their scared little sheep. It remembered me of the ones Andrea and I grew up seeing in the smaller towns and villages surrounding Catania and Mt. Etna.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The memory distracted me; it also made me smile. The need to drastically point out farm animals while driving by them in a car, or whatever mode of transportation, is an experience that transcends cultural and language barriers, no? Andrea loved the herds of sheep when we were kids. They were his favorite. In that moment, I found myself missing him even more than usual - </span>
  <em>
    <span>Mamma</span>
  </em>
  <span>, too.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The abrupt chaos brought me back to reality: a patient a couple beds away, one we had not reached yet, coded. We were instructed to stand back and, more importantly, to stay out of the way. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>In silence, we watched as situations we had only read about in our textbooks or discussed in the comfort of a lecture hall unfolded in front of us: medical professionals more experienced than us executed their training and tried their best.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The patient did not make it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The first time you hear a person flatlining stays with you.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Our mentor tried to use the experience to give us an important lesson, I am sure of it - something along the lines that ultimately, you can do all the right things, following all the correct steps, but sometimes it will not be enough to save a life.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I am sure they put it more eloquently, but the whispers from my fellow students - colleagues - had distracted me in that moment.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Ma certo è morto - ce l’abbiamo una DeLuca tra di noi.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Of course he died - we have a DeLuca in our midst.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Papà</span>
  </em>
  <span> took me out to dinner at one of the fancier restaurants in the city that evening to celebrate my first day. I didn’t tell him what I overheard. I didn’t want to know if he was aware of the reputation he had around the hospital - about what he had done to his legacy and how he had given me a disadvantage.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I didn’t want or need that confirmation.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So, my first encounter with death taught me that we as medical professionals will need to maintain a careful, sometimes dangerous balancing act and I was already working against a disreputable family legacy I did not want. Those of us who choose to disregard it could do harm. We could lose four patients. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Part of me wonders if that’s why I decided to go into the field of medicine that I did. Would helping bring life into this world ever make up for the four that were needlessly lost?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Another part of me </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows</span>
  </em>
  <span> I went into women’s health because I </span>
  <em>
    <span>want</span>
  </em>
  <span> to help women and make medicine better for them. Regardless of the reason, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Papà</span>
  </em>
  <span> believes I wasted my time with my speciality.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It doesn’t matter.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Because </span>
  <em>
    <span>Mamma</span>
  </em>
  <span> was proud.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She came to visit me toward the end of my residency, while Andrea was studying for his undergraduate degree on the East coast. I hadn’t seen or talked with her in so long, which was entirely my fault. Between studying and all the work I was expected to do at the hospital, I didn’t have enough time in the day.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s a terrible excuse.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I did not have enough time in my day to write a letter or to make a phone call to my own mother.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Thinking back on it, I still feel ashamed of myself.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>During those later years, I could have done a lot more to stay in contact with her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I picked her up from the airport - her flight had been delayed due to minor activity from our beloved Mt. Etna. They weren’t sure if the plane would be able to land safely, depending on the wind and the ashen smoke. No one is ever too concerned about these minor activities, you come to expect them (and hope for them) growing up so close to an active volcano.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>(Unless you were trying to take a flight in or out of the Catania airport. Then being at the mercy of Mt. Etna becomes an annoyance - who thought putting an airport so close to a volcano was a good idea anyway?)</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Luckily, her flight had not been diverted to the other side of the island. Although I would have driven the five hours round trip, I’m glad that I wasn’t forced to.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There is no embrace like </span>
  <em>
    <span>Mamma</span>
  </em>
  <span>’s and I had found myself not wanting to let go. It had been </span>
  <em>
    <span>years</span>
  </em>
  <span> of just hearing her voice or seeing her handwriting. She held me for as long as I needed her to. So, we stood there, in the middle of the airport, for what felt like an eternity with me just holding as if afraid letting go meant I’d never get another chance and her soothingly rubbing my back. I can still hear her gentle voice whispering, “</span>
  <em>
    <span>O, figlia mia.</span>
  </em>
  <span>” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Oh, my daughter.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>After dropping her suitcase off at the hotel, we grabbed dinner at a nearby restaurant. I forget how long we were there. We were too busy catching up: Andrea is almost done with undergrad and is applying to medical schools all over the United States. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Mamma</span>
  </em>
  <span> is doing fine in her own right and still getting used to having an almost empty nest. Andrea had the happen of dropping in on weekends.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Your typical </span>
  <em>
    <span>mammone</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Mamma</span>
  </em>
  <span>’s boy.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I caught her up in my own life. It didn’t take as long. My life revolved around the hospital.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I didn't bring up </span>
  <em>
    <span>Papà</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>What she did next, I wasn’t expecting: she apologized.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She apologized for divorcing </span>
  <em>
    <span>Papà</span>
  </em>
  <span> and for leaving me in Italy. She had a hard time speaking, kept mixing her Italian with some English and vice versa. It was hard to properly give voice to the burdened emotion, I had convinced myself. The look on her face - the heaviness in her eyes echoed the weight her heart must’ve been carrying for God knows how long and keeping it to herself. I try to reassure her that there’s no need for any of that. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>For the first time in a long time, I saw my mother. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Actually</span>
  </em>
  <span> saw her. She sat across from me at that table and I saw.. I saw how time had been a little unkind to her; she was older and worn from the stress life can so ruthlessly throw at you. She looked tired,beyond the fact that she had just taken a transatlantic flight. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When she got up from the table, she stumbled slightly - we had been sitting for too long. We walked arm-in-arm back to the hotel where she forced me to go up to her room. She brought me things from the States - gifts from her and Andrea and some souvenirs. She told me she couldn’t wait to get to sleep. Her head was bothering her; the travel day had finally caught up with her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>My arms were too full to hug her again, so she gave me a kiss on the cheek before I left to let her be.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That hug in the airport? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That </span>
  <em>
    <span>was</span>
  </em>
  <span> the last time I hugged </span>
  <em>
    <span>Mamma</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She passed away in her sleep that night.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>We learned that she had a stroke.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And I had missed </span>
  <em>
    <span>all </span>
  </em>
  <span>the signs.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I called Andrea and told him that he needed to be on the next flight to Italy. I lied to him. I told him that </span>
  <em>
    <span>Mamma</span>
  </em>
  <span> was sick. At that same airport, nearly on the same spot where I had embraced her last, I told my sweet baby brother that she had actually died. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And that at the time of my phone call, she had already passed away. I could not bear the idea of telling him over the phone, where I knew that he was alone. I could not stomach the idea of him finding out about </span>
  <em>
    <span>Mamma</span>
  </em>
  <span> from me without me being there to hug him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He was so mad and I don’t blame him, but I do not regret how I delivered that awful news to him. I was able to hug him as the world came crashing down.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I had no one.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That was the second time I encountered death and it taught me that it would be ruthless, even to my loved ones.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The third time where I thought we would cross paths again, but was narrowly avoided was this afternoon when I was standing at the nurses station in the pit. The emergency room doors leading to the ambulance bay flew open and the EMTs came barreling through, performing CPR on the patient that had crashed enroute in the hospital.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That patient was you, Maya.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>...sooo, here's some angst (I'm sorry). I'm not sure yet how long this is going to be. I also wanted to try out writing in first person. I hope it went well.</p><p>If you need a fixing of some fluff, I have a few other works you can enjoy.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Memories of just before their vacation (and Carina has to force herself to stop thinking of the possibility that it would be their only vacation) came flooding back to her during that very moment. During that moment where immeasurable terror and panic painfully sucked the actual breath out of her lungs and froze her in place at the nurses’ station as echoes of a time that now felt so long ago of nearly complete bliss and love tried to warm me free from fright.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Time moved in slow motion, keeping me away from any answers to the multitude of questions running through my mind at a pace I was unable to keep up with.</p><p> </p><p>So <em> unbearably </em>slow.</p><p> </p><p>Memories of just before our first vacation (and I have to force myself to stop thinking of the possibility that it would be our only vacation) came flooding back to me during that very moment. During that moment where immeasurable terror and panic painfully sucked the actual breath out of my lungs and froze me in place at the nurses’ station as echoes of a time that now felt so long ago of nearly complete bliss and love tried to warm me free from fright.</p><p> </p><p>The day in question was supposed to have been ours to spend together however we had wanted, I remembered. The stars had somehow aligned and we both had the entire day off from work - a Wednesday, I recalled, because you had said it was your self-care day, but then your text had come that morning while I was still in bed.</p><p> </p><p>An apology.</p><p> </p><p>A last minute situation out of your control that was going to keep you at the station all day, probably, since you were the chief - you would let me know otherwise.</p><p> </p><p>A critical incident stress debrief with a trauma specialist and psychologist to help your team process the death of one of your colleagues (fear erupted in the pit of my stomach as a cold wave of hysterical anxiety washes over me at the idea of this being necessary once again for your team).</p><p> </p><p>You had not got home until well after sunset that Wednesday; you had asked me to come over, but you had also braced yourself for a declined invitation because of my early shift in the morning. I had not minded - in fact, I had been looking forward to helping you enjoy the remnants of your self-care day. I had even tasked myself to bring over a bottle of wine for us to enjoy.</p><p> </p><p>Here is my first  confession, <em> bella, </em> and I regret that I have never told you such before: I would <em> never </em> decline a chance to spend any amount of time with you and now I find myself in a situation where I am begging, pleading, and hoping for more. I want endless days with you; I want countless dates; and I want numberless warm embraces and tender kisses.</p><p> </p><p>You had been very quiet that evening as we cooked and enjoyed dinner together - a consolation prize in comparison to the day we had both envisioned for ourselves, but it had been gladly accepted, regardless. Conversation had been light, almost reserved to small talk. You had assured me that you were alright - just tired after a day that you had not prepared to have been as long as it had, but you had wanted company. You had not wanted to be alone. </p><p> </p><p>Little did I know that in that moment, you had been trying to work up the courage to tell me how your day went.</p><p> </p><p>Refilling our wine glasses and polishing off the bottle of Italian red, I had joined you in the living room where you had got the fire in the fireplace going. It had been another typical, rainy day in Seattle - a cold one, at that. The warmth had been very welcoming.</p><p> </p><p>After reuniting you with your glass of wine, I had placed my own on the coffee table and then I joined you on the couch. I had allowed my arm to hang over the back as I rested my head against my upper arm, quietly watching you take a few sips from glass. Your attention had been on the fire, fixated. </p><p> </p><p>A few moments had passed before you had turned to me. You had reached out to gently stroke my arm; the small amount of attention had been enough for me to smile. That’s when you had asked - if we could take a vacation.</p><p> </p><p>You never take time off of work.</p><p> </p><p>Work is your life.</p><p> </p><p>When you had confirmed that you do not take personal days, that you do not take vacations, but you had wanted to start trying, I finally had worked up enough courage to ask you how your unexpected work day really went.</p><p> </p><p>You had looked away - forward, towards the fire that highlighted your glistening blue eyes. You had confessed some things to a total stranger than you never in a million years had thought you would - or maybe that had been exactly what you had needed in order to give those thoughts a voice to begin with: a complete stranger. </p><p> </p><p>There had been a slight hesitation before you had turned to me. Our eyes had locked; neither of us had wanted to look away. I had wanted to show you that I had no intention of going anywhere, that I had been there to listen to whatever it is you had to say that evening. A few moments later, I had learned that you were trying to break away from a life lesson that had been drilled into you since you had been a little girl.</p><p> </p><p>Eyes forward.</p><p> </p><p>The session today had made me realize just how exhausted you had been feeling - your whole life had been eyes forward. Your whole life has been nonstop work and training. You had never allowed yourself to just stop and rest.</p><p> </p><p>Never.</p><p> </p><p>There had never been time for yourself and you had been led to believe that there simply wasn’t any.</p><p> </p><p>The next part you had brought up, you had tried to look forward to the fire, again, but you had stopped yourself. You had kept your eyes on me. I did not tell you then, in that moment, that I was proud of you for that. You struggle with your emotions, Maya, and I know it wasn’t easy telling me all that you did that evening.</p><p> </p><p>I had stayed quiet because I had thought that had been what you needed at the time.</p><p> </p><p>You had worked up the courage to tell me that you think about dying probably more often than one should. You immediately had reassured me that you were okay - a response to me suddenly sitting up straighter, concerned.</p><p> </p><p>You had told me everything you told the trauma specialist - you did not have to, but I am honored that you had trusted me with something so personal so early on in our relationship.</p><p> </p><p>You had reiterated that you wanted to try to finally rest and enjoy life and that you had wanted to try that with me.</p><p> </p><p>I had wanted it, too.</p><p> </p><p>Suddenly, time caught up with itself and I realized I am still standing, motionless. The EMTs - your own team - rushed by, pushing the gurney through. As they pass, I get a better glance of you lying there, unresponsive. My heart leaps into my throat: blood matted your short blonde hair as it trailed down the right side of your face. Your arm is covered in burns and your leg mangled.</p><p> </p><p>And you were not breathing on your own.</p><p> </p><p>Heart stopped.</p><p> </p><p>I took a step forward as you are rushed past me. I nearly collided with one of your firefighters from the group that followed after you. We both look away from you for a second and I realized that it was Andy Herrera. We did not say a word, but she shook her head at me. Her expression said it all: <em> I don’t know what happened. </em></p><p> </p><p>Before I could follow after you to trauma room one, someone grabbed my upper arm, stopping me in my tracks.</p><p> </p><p>“You can’t,” Teddy told me. “You <em> know </em> that you can’t.” </p><p> </p><p>She was right. We cannot treat or help treat our loved ones, as much as it pains us.</p><p> </p><p>As much as we want to help.</p><p> </p><p>As much as we have the ability and medical training to do so.</p><p> </p><p>No one can expect you to make the right call or to keep a calm, clear mind.</p><p> </p><p>I watched Teddy proceed after you and I know that you are in good hands. She ordered all the firefighters out of her way. They hovered in the doorway in the hallway until the door of the trauma room slammed shut.</p><p> </p><p>And here is my second confession: I want another little getaway vacation, Maya.</p><p> </p><p>Just the two of us, as we so blatantly ignore the rest of the world.</p><p> </p><p>This time, <em> I </em> am the one asking permission, <em> bella </em>.</p><p> </p><p>Please, do not deny me.</p><p> </p><p>Do not tell me ‘no.’</p><p> </p><p>Do not go someplace I cannot follow. Don’t you dare.</p><p> </p><p>No eyes forward; eyes on <em> me </em>.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Hopefully, the intention of time moving slow and not getting answers like Carina comes through with this chapter.</p><p>I'll try to update again as soon as I can. I have to start the process of moving across state starting tomorrow, so it's gonna be a bit of a stressful time filled with no writing, unfortunately. :(</p><p>Thank you for taking the time to read up until this point, for the kudos, and for the comments. &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>They haven’t spoken - not really - in a week and a half.</p>
<p>Maya tries not to count since it doesn’t do any good, but.. ten days. She can’t help herself and it’s been ten days.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>My original plan was to have this piece just be Carina's pov and then do a sequel from Maya's, but a comment from Hope Gallagher made me decide to weave the two together into one story instead. Enjoy &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>-Earlier That Day-</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>We haven’t spoken - not really - in a week and a half.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I try not to count since it doesn’t do any good, but.. ten days. I can’t help myself and it’s been ten days, Carina.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Stepping out onto the damp sidewalk outside of my apartment building, I resist the urge to look back at our nearly non existent text conversation and start playing my music for my morning run to work. My now short hair bobs and weaves in a way I’m still unfamiliar with as I proceed down the street - way too short to be pulled back, but.. that was kind of the point. I do my best to distract myself from my own thoughts as I run through the side streets still wet from the morning showers that passed through the area.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Everything’s still quiet. Unmoving. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It’s way too early to be up, let alone running.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>But I’m having a hard time sleeping at night.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>And I’d rather not be in bed alone, but I can’t tell you that.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I’m having a hard time whenever I’m not distracting myself either, if I were to be really honest. My mind wanders off to places I really wish it won’t if I stay idle for too long. So, I try to keep moving and I try to not let things get too quiet for too long.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Instead, I focus on my breathing and try to get lost in the loud hard rock music blasting through my headphones. It’s not your favorite, I know. You’ve never flat out told me, but I also don’t need you to. You’d try to be polite about it. You’d smile in reassurance that ‘no, it’s great!’, but you wrinkle your nose - and that’s your tell when something, no matter how big or how small something is bothering you.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I have no idea if you’re aware of it and I’ve usually found it endearing. Usually, it meant that you were just trying to humor me - listen to this very loud music where you could barely make out the lyrics - no, it’s great! If I like it, then you were willing to give it a shot. Why not?</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>We weren’t going to be on the same page about everything. That’s not realistic - impossible, even.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Though, it took me by surprise when you told me that you really enjoy fishing (looking back, I feel like that should have been a given, maybe, considering that you grew up on an island). You tried to convince me it was soothing - a nice mental escape from the real world. Nothing else matters when you’re out in the water, but all I could think of is the fact that you’re just.. you’re just </span>
  <em>
    <span>sitting</span>
  </em>
  <span> there, </span>
  <em>
    <span>waiting</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and there’s a possibility that you may not even be rewarded for your efforts anyway.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>If you could listen to some of my self proclaimed shitty music, then I could at the very least try fishing. Though, who knows if that’d ever happen-</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Focus, Bishop,” I hiss at myself sternly. I’m slipping. I’m getting distracted. It’s unacceptable.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The music. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Right.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Pay attention to nothing else.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Rifting guitar solos, loud banging drums, and barely audible lyrics I know by heart carry me another couple of blocks before all sound is instantaneously cut off. The headphones are dead.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Fuck,” I murmur under my breathe as I keep going. The station’s still a bit away.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The rumbling from above grabs my attention. I look up towards the darkening sky of an unexpected storm rolling in. Clear skies my ass, random weather app, but also shame on me for believing the forecast. I’ve lived in Seattle long enough to know better.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” I grumble and push myself harder, determined to not get caught in a potent downpour. This is shaping up to be a rather shit show of a morning - on par with everything else going on in my life, I guess, so I really shouldn’t be surprised by any of it, right?</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Just focus on getting to work, on taking a shower, and maybe sending a text beyond a ‘hi, how are you?’</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>More than a ‘hey, thinking of you.’ </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Don’t let the conversation fizzle out this time.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>You’re still the same woman who insisted on not letting me drink alone that night at Joe’s; you’re still the same woman who had no problem wasting taxpayer dollars in my office on multiple occasions; you’re still the same woman who gladly went on vacation to show me how fun and enjoyable taking time off could be. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>You’re still the same woman I fell in love with, but, god, I don’t know why I can’t get myself to move beyond ‘how are you’ anymore. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Is it because I said I love you? I’ve never really said it before to anyone else. I’ve.. never really expressed </span>
  <em>
    <span>emotions</span>
  </em>
  <span> openly before either. This is uncharted territory and I’m terrified, but I don’t know how to tell you I’m terrified because.. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Well, because.. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Ten days ago, you wrinkled your nose when you said ‘I love you.’ </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I love you, Maya. Come kiss me.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>That kiss, your hands running through my newly chopped hair, the complete ecstasy of you taking me back when I’ve completely betrayed your trust. I didn’t deserve it. I don’t deserve it. You still gave it to me.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The moment was short lived; you needed to get back to work. I asked - practically begged you - to come over after your shift at the hospital. My intention was to talk, to get things out in the open and on the table. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>We.. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>We didn’t do much talking that night. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I don’t know who prevented who, or maybe if we both did our fair share? Maybe I’m trying to convince myself that it was a mutual effort. Maybe I’m misremembering to cover up the fact that even though I was able to speak my truth to you in the courtyard, I couldn’t do it again in my own apartment.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>You know, the place where I purposefully decided to hurt you out of misplaced anger.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The low rumbling thunder isn’t enough to distract my thoughts; I force myself to run even faster, but even the burning sensation of strained leg muscles isn’t enough to pull me away of real memories of deep, rough kisses and bites as we both aggressively undressed each other in the hallway before I pulled you into the bedroom.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Or before you pushed me...?</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Mutual effort.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I woke up to an empty bed the next morning and a text message - </span>
  <em>
    <span>Emergency delivery at the hospital, I am sorry. We will talk later.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Except, it’s been ten days and there’s been no real later.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Though, my lack of a real response may play a factor into the whole situation.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m a </span>
  <em>
    <span>fucking</span>
  </em>
  <span> idiot,” I murmur under my breath as I finally come up to the station. I barely avoid the rain - so, at least there’s one good thing about this morning. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>After a quick shower and getting into my captain’s uniform, I realize that I’m still just a bit early for my own shift. I hide out in my office and as I wait for C shift to clear out, my goal </span>
  <em>
    <span>was </span>
  </em>
  <span>to go over all the tasks A shift needs to complete this morning. Instead, I stare at my phone on my desk, half willing for it to light up with a notification.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Nothing.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Of course there’s nothing.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There’s absolutely no reason for there to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I pick up the damn thing thing anyway and reread our lackluster conversation - though, calling it such seems way too god damn generous.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Emergency delivery at the hospital, I am sorry. We will talk later.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Radio silence for three days thanks to yours truly and then I came back with this masterpiece:</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Hey. How are you?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Good! And how are you?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I’m ok.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I am glad to hear. :)</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Then, it was followed by four days of me being unable to follow up - unable to text out one more sentence, just four words: </span>
  <em>
    <span>can you come over</span>
  </em>
  <span>? I could have even sent three: </span>
  <em>
    <span>can we talk</span>
  </em>
  <span>? But what did I do instead? Nothing.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Because the idea of addressing the hurt and the mess that I caused feels like too much and becomes overwhelming. I don’t like to talk about emotions and feelings - they make me feel weak.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> weak.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I don’t like feeling vulnerable and that’s all I felt confessing myself to you: so little and so uncomfortably open, but I’m trying.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Thinking of you. Hope you had a good day.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Grazie, bella. You, too.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>trying</span>
  </em>
  <span>, I swear, Carina. I just.. I don’t.. I can’t follow through. Why can’t I just follow through?</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“No more excuses, Bishop,” I murmur to myself, followed by a heavy sigh. It’s been another three days of ghosting. I’m going to do this. I gotta do this. Don’t think - you overthink. You overthink </span>
  <em>
    <span>everything</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Just.. Just </span>
  <em>
    <span>write</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Listen, Carina, no more small talk; it gets us nowhere and I know that it’s absolutely MY fault. I don’t know why I feel like I suddenly can’t talk to you. It’s all I want to do. I want to see you. I want to talk to you. So, can we?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>My thumb hovers over the send button as I struggle to actually hit the damn thing. My heart beats rapidly in my chest and I’m painfully aware of it. I can’t really breathe, either. I can hear you trying to calm me down: </span>
  <em>
    <span>hey, hey, hey - no eyes forward; eyes only on me. Good. Breathe, Maya</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>If I hit it, there’s no going back. If I hit it, I’m opening myself up all over again. If I hit it, then maybe.. maybe we can actually move forward. We could move past this if I could only -- </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s the blue button, you know.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Startled, I drop my phone on my desk and my head immediately jerks up to find Jack leaning against the door frame, arms folded over his chest. I didn’t hear him knock - or even open the damn door.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“In the lower right hand corner,” he continues.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Can I help you with something, Gibson?” I reply, leaning back in my office chair.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I thought you should know-” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He’s interrupted by a loud, whip cracking roar of thunder that shakes the building that kills the electricity. We both stare up at the lighting fixtures on the ceiling that return to power a few seconds later. The backup generator kicked in as it was supposed to - good.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Anyway,” Jack continues, clearing his throat. “We’re all waiting for you downstairs.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Tilting my head to the side in slight confusion, I glance down at my phone and realize two things: 1. I lost track of time and 2. I am not willing to admit how much of that time I spent staring at unresolved text messages.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I accidentally let a disgruntled “fuck” slip as I stand from my desk and begin to round it.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Gotta hit send, Maya. That’s all you gotta do,” Jack points out.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Steadily growing more annoyed, I shake my head at him, “No one asked you -- and, uh, I’ll do it later. Everyone’s waiting. Let’s go.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>And Maya has come to learn that maybe.. just maybe, she finds it a bit easier to run into physical, literal fires than trying to put out the emotional ones that she's accidentally set through self sabotage. Maya knows how to put out an actual fire. She's trained to do that, but this? This, not so much.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Even with the reputation of always, strictly starting a shift on time - at precisely the top of the hour, like clockwork, no one dared mention that we were late this morning. Hell, Montgomery accidentally looked at me the wrong way and immediately was assigned to cleaning duty. Vic ended up manning the phone and the front desk for nearly the same reason.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I didn’t have the patience and my team knew. Well, they didn’t know </span>
  <em>
    <span>exactly</span>
  </em>
  <span> what was going on, entirely, but I’m sure some have put some pieces of the puzzle together. At the very least, they knew something was off.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The morning training, checklist, and duties were tackled with no issues, no back talking, and a lot of ‘yes, captain.’ Exactly how I needed it to be.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Returning to my office, I try to busy myself with forms and paperwork, but I catch myself glancing over to my phone multiple times with the same, ungranted wish. You know, a call would be a pretty good distraction right about now - it’d make the day go by faster, too, not that there’s a point to time passing by. Don’t have a lot of things to look forward to, not with the mundane schedule I’ve fallen into - going back to an empty apartment, having a sad meal for one (if you could call it that - last night, it was a bag of popcorn and I easily envisioned your look of horror through its entirety), meticulously rethinking every little thing I’ve ever told you, going to bed alone, and failing to fall asleep. Again.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Annoyingly, out of habit, I pick up the phone and return to our lackluster conversation - a far cry from our usual sweet messages of longing to see each other after work and pictures that document how our day is going (mostly of us, from our desks, buried in paperwork - the untold aspects of both our careers that neither is necessary fond of). You’d rather be working on your research and I don’t blame you. You’ve explained your research to me. I’d rather be running into burning buildings.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There hasn’t been a lot of </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> happening since becoming captain.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>And I’ve come to learn that maybe.. just maybe, I find it a bit easier to run into physical, literal fires than trying to put out the emotional ones that I’ve accidentally set through self sabotage. I know how to put out an actual fire. I’ve </span>
  <em>
    <span>trained</span>
  </em>
  <span> to do that, but this? This, not so much.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I stare and reread my unsent message countless times: </span>
  <em>
    <span>Listen, Carina, no more small talk; it gets us nowhere and I know that it’s absolutely MY fault. I don’t know why I feel like I suddenly can’t talk to you. It’s all I want to do. I want to see you. I want to talk to you. So, can we?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Am I too direct?</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Is it too much?</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Should I go with my usual ‘hey/hi,’ considering how </span>
  <em>
    <span>well</span>
  </em>
  <span> that’s worked over the last few days? Before I could backtrack and make any edits, the little grey … bubble appears on your end and I suddenly forget how to breathe. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>And I swear my heart stops. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I can already hear you telling me that’s not possible. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I can also hear your soft laugh as you tease me.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I miss it.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It’s far from the only thing I miss, Carina. I miss our quiet days off together. I miss you cuddling up against my body as you sleep peacefully. I miss you sneaking into my office to steal a few kisses before you head off to work yourself. I miss sneaking into yours to join you for a quick coffee break or lunch. I miss our search for the best french fries and mozzarella sticks in Seattle. I miss being curled up on the couch with you and a glass of wine, watching trashy pop culture reality shows that we’ll both deny watching. I miss talking to you about everything and about nothing in particular. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I miss </span>
  <em>
    <span>you, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Carina.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>That damn bubble appears and reappears way too many times than I’m comfortable with. Then, it disappears all together. No message comes through. Not a single one. Nothing, but maybe you’re still there staring at your phone.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Maybe.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Out of pure panic, I hit the send button. No turning back now-</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Message not delivered</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Another rumble of thunder shakes the building. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Interference from the storm.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“God </span>
  <em>
    <span>dammit</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Tossing my phone back onto my desk, I immediately go into the captain’s bunk to change into sweats and a tank top. I can’t handle this anymore. I need to get out of my own head for a bit and I don’t know any other way. I make a beeline for the gym and thankfully find it empty. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Good.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Content with the weights already set on the bench press, I lay down flat on my back and reach up to grasp the metal bar. Finding a good grip, I push up to lift the bar. Before I could even clear it free from the rest, my one person work out is crashed by an unwanted guest.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I </span>
  <em>
    <span>know</span>
  </em>
  <span> you’re smarter than doing that without a spotter,” I hear coming from the door which I also hear close behind him. I don’t adhere to the warning. I lower the weighted bar down to my chest.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you following me around, Gibson?” I shoot back, lifting.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t know if you’re aware of this, Captain, but the station isn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> big.” I hear him dragging his feet against the floor and I grind my teeth together, irrationally annoyed at his inability to just </span>
  <em>
    <span>lift</span>
  </em>
  <span> his </span>
  <em>
    <span>feet</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“And </span>
  <em>
    <span>I</span>
  </em>
  <span> know you aren’t talking back to me-” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Or what? You’ve already given out the shitty jobs,” Jack retorts, now hovering over me at the top of the bench press.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll come up with another,” I state matter-o-factly. “I think you may have to recount some of the-” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Did you send the message?” he cuts me off.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I don’t reply. I focus on the lifting instead, but he grabs the bar and leads it back onto the rest.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“What are you doing?” I snap as he momentarily shuffles out of sight.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Gonna add a weight for every bullshit answer you give me, Maya,” Jack informs, doing exactly what he said he would. At least the weight is still within the top range of my limit, I confirm, as I begin again.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“But I didn’t answer,” I point out, pushing up on the bar.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Silence is compliance to bullshit,” Jack says with a shrug of the shoulders. “Those are the rules, captain.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Who the fuck made these rules-” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Did you send it?” he interrupts again. He’s already fetching more weights. Asshole.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I tried,” I answered honestly after another rep. “The damn thing didn’t go through-- are you </span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span> going to punish me for the terrible cell service right now? Why are you so </span>
  <em>
    <span>invested</span>
  </em>
  <span> in this, Gibson?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He nods as he adds another set. I begin to struggle, but I refuse to show it. I keep lifting. I keep going, just as I was taught growing up. I don’t complain, not about anything and definitely not about this. I wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction. I don’t ask for help. I never ask for help. I just keep pushing forward. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Eyes</span>
  </em>
  <span> forward. And I know that’s part of the damn problem.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You said this was the best relationship you’ve ever had and you’re just going to throw it away?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” I hiss through clenched teeth. He reaches again. “Oh, come </span>
  <em>
    <span>on</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s the thing about bullshit, Maya - it weighs you down. So, what’d she tell you after you apologized?” he asks, refraining from adding more weight for the moment. He proceeds when I decide to shake my head and hold back my answer.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>My pace slows; I’m struggling. I lower the bar and shift slightly, trying to get a better grasp without resting it against my chest.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“What’d she say?” he repeats, hands now hovering just in case he has to step in.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“That she </span>
  <em>
    <span>loves</span>
  </em>
  <span> me,” I growl, lifting the weights and bringing it back down slowly.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Then what’s the problem? Why aren’t you talking to her?” he pushes.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“The problem?” I repeat as I push up for one more lift. “What if she’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>lying</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” My forearms are shaking - or maybe my entire body is as I finally give voice to the thought that’s been trialing me around for the last ten days. Jack helps me put the bar back securely on the rest. I pull myself up so I’m sitting. I lean forward and try to catch my breath as sweat trails down my face.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I shake my head as he rounds the bench. “Don’t,” I immediately state firmly.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“No more Maya freeze outs,” Jack says, ignoring me. “No more just walking away when things get tough. With all due respect, if this really is the </span>
  <em>
    <span>best</span>
  </em>
  <span> relationship you’ve been in, you’re going to have to get through the tough stuff for once.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Wiping my forehead with the back of my hand, I inhale deeply, trying to steady my breath and trying to focus on something else besides him. I hate that he’s right; I hate that I can’t come to that conclusion on my own; I hate that he knows me this well. Before I could say anything back at him, the alarm goes off and rings throughout the station. We both look up out of habit.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>A call, exactly what I needed.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Electrical house fire, ignited by lightning strike.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Honestly,” Jack murmurs under his breath. “Was wondering when we were going to get one of those today.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>--</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Lightning had struck a residential area - a family home with an added room, a room that had been added illegally and didn’t comply with the city’s fire code. The damn thing would have never gotten a building permit - too close to the property line. Faulty wiring had caused it to immediately go up in flames and it had started to spread to the rest of the house, as well as the neighboring one to its left.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>And that’s how one house fire had turned into two. With the storm above being merely a light show, not even the damn weather was on our side.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Both families had evacuated their houses - followed their fire escape plans to a tee, all but one child from the house on the left. I had sent in a team to sweep the area; the rest were tackling the actual flames. Gotta get the fire contained. Gotta keep it from moving right. Lets not turn this in a three house fire.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Get your damn building permits, people.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a sudden, sporadic pulling on my sleeve. I look down at the kid from the added room house, covered in soot. Had he been covered in soot when I had checked in on the families that were standing across the street? I don’t think-</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“She’s trapped inside,” he wails.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Yeah, the other kid from the other family. I know. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I kneel down to his level. “Listen, buddy,” I try to comfort. “The nice firefighters are in there looking for her okay?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“No!” he cries. “She’s not in </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> house. We were playing hide-n-seek in </span>
  <em>
    <span>my</span>
  </em>
  <span> house. We weren’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>supposed</span>
  </em>
  <span> to because Daddy was on the phone-” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“She’s in the other-- hang on,” I interrupt. “Kid, did you go back </span>
  <em>
    <span>inside</span>
  </em>
  <span> the house?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I tried calling her from the back yard, but I don’t think she heard me. I opened the backdoor, but I can’t get inside - you have to help her, please!” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Shit,” I murmur to myself as I grab the radio on my shoulder. I glance down at the kid’s hands. They’re covered in welts from handling the door, I assume. And the soot? Yeah, he definitely had run back inside, I’m sure of it. “Montgomery, Hughes - I need you to start a sweep of the </span>
  <em>
    <span>other</span>
  </em>
  <span> house. The missing child may be inside. Move out.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Silence.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Montgomery! Hughes!” I repeat.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Nothing.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“19, status report!” I order.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>No response. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>What the fuck happened to the comms? </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re a firefighter, please don’t let my friend die!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I turn my attention back to the kid and try to offer him a reassuring smile. “I </span>
  <em>
    <span>am</span>
  </em>
  <span> a firefighter and I’m going to help, alright? What’s your friend’s name?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Carina.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I immediately freeze.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“What?” I barely manage to choke out.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Katrina,” he repeats.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sighing heavily, I nod and stand up, trying the comms one more time to no avail. Fuck, fuck, </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>. We are losing valuable time. Who knows how long the kid has been in the house and who knows what she’s been exposed to, I tell myself as I order the boy back to his family.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>This goes against all training, but I can’t reach anyone and there’s a civilian - a god damn </span>
  <em>
    <span>kid</span>
  </em>
  <span>- in danger. I run around the side of the house and quickly find the open sliding glass door in the back. Dark smoke is billowing out from it. The fire had spread from the illegal room to the kitchen. Need to get to the kid before it does.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Stepping through the back door is the last thing I remember.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>As always, thank you for all the kudos and comments. Let me know what you think/feel - I enjoy the conversation. :) (Also, feel free to let me know if you have any prompts, etc. &lt;3 )</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Carina is terrified and there is only one person she wants in this entire world at this very second to comfort her and tell her that everything is going to be okay. And that person went past Carina on a gurney, unable to even breathe on her own with the color draining from her face as they tried to keep her heart beating (a vision that would continue to haunt me for as long as I can remember it).</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>As the door to the trauma room slams shut, I take a step to the side to try to peek through the blinds, but an intern immediately pulls them shut to obstruct the view - an order barked by Teddy, no doubt. Her message is loud and clear: in this moment, you are not and cannot be Doctor DeLuca; you are just Carina. You are only Carina and your girlfriend is in the best possible hands in the whole city.</p><p> </p><p>On the whole West Coast, even.</p><p> </p><p>We stand silently in the hallway - me, surrounded by firefighters I have only heard stories about, but never truly properly met - all staring at that damn door and blocked windows. All wallowing in the same incredible sense of complete sheer and utter helpless. When your job entails saving lives, the feeling of helplessness is usually a very foreign concept. It is daunting and renders you into a person you are unfamiliar with: one that feels fear.</p><p> </p><p>I feel <em> scared </em>. </p><p> </p><p>So <em> unbelievably </em>scared.</p><p> </p><p>I am hardly ever scared, Maya. You know this. You know through first hand failed attempts at jump scares when you thought I was not paying attention and horror movies you have convinced me to watch with you. You know that I do not frighten easily. Using knowledge, logic, and just talking through the situation, I do not often feel afraid.</p><p> </p><p>But right now?</p><p> </p><p>Right now, I am terrified.</p><p> </p><p>I am terrified and there is only one person I want in this entire world at this very second to comfort me and tell me that everything is going to be okay. And that person went past me on a gurney, unable to even breathe on her own with the color draining from her face as they tried to keep her heart beating (a vision that would continue to haunt me for as long as I can remember it).</p><p> </p><p>The only person that could offer me any form of comfort or reassurance is currently also the same one who is causing me such an unprecedented amount of fear.</p><p> </p><p>“Move! Move! <em> MOVE! </em>” </p><p> </p><p>A second gurney and a second response team comes barreling through the crowded hallway which instantly parts and gets out of the way - another burn victim from the same fire, I hear them call out. Severe burns. My hands instantaneously cover my mouth, stifling a gasp, as I catch another glance and my heart shatters even more than I think was possible.</p><p> </p><p><em> O, Dio mio, è una bambina </em>.</p><p> </p><p>A child.</p><p> </p><p>A young girl.</p><p> </p><p>“Doctor DeLuca!” another medical personal shouts from the end of the hall to take my attention away from the growing travesty unfolding before my eyes, keeping me from trying to piece together what could have happened. “Come on - it’s a busy hallway! Clear your group out to the waiting room.” </p><p> </p><p><em> My </em> group. Most of these people - once again for clarification - I have only ever heard about in work related stories or complaints (mostly complaints; it has not been easy for you, being captain), let alone have met them prior to this very moment, but.. still <em> my </em>group. Or maybe I am misreading things just a tiny bit, who knows? I am not in the best headspace exactly to maneuver in a language that is not even my own. </p><p> </p><p>There are too many of us for the general waiting room, which also feels too… public as well. We would draw too much attention. Instead, I lead the group of firefighters to a personal, smaller waiting room that I unlock with the appropriate code on the keypad. Holding it open, I allow them inside. Warren is the last of the group to enter. He stops before proceeding inside with the rest and places a firm hand on my shoulder. When he gives me a gentle, reassuring squeeze, a lump quickly grows in my throat that I try to clear. Although I want to ask him a million questions, I suddenly cannot find my voice. My eyes also start to sting, so I blink furiously.</p><p> </p><p><em> Calmati, Carina </em> . <em> Tranquilla. </em></p><p> </p><p>After ensuring that the door closes behind me, I take the empty seat adjacent to it, next to Andy Herrera who left it empty for me, or I assume anyway. The room is silent and tension hangs thick in the air, almost suffocating. I lean forward, resting my elbows against my just above my knees as I hang my head. I keep my eyes locked on the floor.</p><p> </p><p>There is nothing else to do, but wait. We have done all we can to help.</p><p> </p><p>And by ‘we,’ I mean the men and women I currently share a space with. </p><p> </p><p>I, on the other hand, have done nothing. </p><p> </p><p>There is nothing I <em> can </em> do to help.</p><p> </p><p>This is way beyond my speciality. I find myself trying to wrack my brain for anything, trying to remember my days before picking a specialization in medicine - an undecided resident with every possible field open to them. Not that remembering any procedures would actually help, but I find comfort in information - in understanding what is happening and what is going on. If I could somehow explain the process to myself, I feel more in control of the situation.</p><p> </p><p>And right now, I do not feel in control.</p><p> </p><p>Not in the slightest.</p><p> </p><p>I do not know how much time passes, for how long I stare at the tiled floor. Time does not feel real - it is fast, slow and paused all at once. All at once, the world continues to move, but is also frozen in place. Ultimately, time is fleeting and there is never enough of it. I just want more time with <em> you </em> , Maya. I could have had <em> more </em> time. </p><p> </p><p>If only I had been more forthcoming in our conversations. </p><p> </p><p>I should have not have let them stop. </p><p> </p><p>I should have pressed on. </p><p> </p><p>I should have kept talking to you.</p><p> </p><p>I should have asked the questions I wanted to ask, so why didn’t I?</p><p> </p><p>Why could I not just talk with you?</p><p> </p><p>This morning, I tried; I tried to send you an unprompted text. A simple <em> buongiorno </em>, a request for the two of us to have coffee that I could have brought over to your office. A simple ten minute hello, at most. I just wanted to see you. I have not seen you since.. since you last came by the hospital.</p><p> </p><p>But then the weather continued to sour and I stupidly decided against it - a decision that leaves me wondering if that would have been our last encounter, or if it could have changed the outcome in all <em> this </em> somehow. The stinging sensation returns to my eyes and I will myself to not cry, not here. Not in front of everyone.</p><p> </p><p>Then someone breaks the deafening silence: “What the hell happened?” </p><p> </p><p>Vic - I recognize her voice without looking up coming from my far right. Before leaving the spaghetti dinner, she made sure I had at least two copies of the calendar you all put together to raise money for -- I cannot even bring myself to think of it right now. I tried to pay for the second, but she would not allow it. She said something about helping to foster new romance and that I would enjoy the month of June in particular. </p><p> </p><p>She was not wrong.</p><p> </p><p>When no one responds, Vic speaks up again, “We found our <em> captain </em> trapped inside a burning building. Literally. Pinned to the ground by burning ceiling beams. She fucking coded on the way here-” </p><p> </p><p>“We don’t need a reminder, Hughes. Thank you,” someone interrupts, speaking over her. The tension in the room grows.</p><p> </p><p>“See, though, I think we do, Miller,” Vic shoots back. “Because she shouldn’t have been in there in the first place and now? Now we’re <em> here </em>.” </p><p> </p><p>“Vic,” a new voice speaks up, coming from her general direction. I do not look up from the floor. I force myself to concentrate on the specks engrained on the tiles. I am trying not to imagine you trapped and helpless in a <em> fire </em>, but it grows increasingly difficult. Part of me wants to distract myself from the conversation I know I am not ready to handle, but the other part desperately wants to know answers, too.</p><p> </p><p>My phone vibrates from the pocket of my white coat. Fishing it out, I lightly shake my head at the notification - a reminder of a meeting I have this afternoon. A reminder that I am still technically at work. I begin to draft a quick message informing that due to a.. a family emergency, I need to clear the rest of day, perhaps the rest of the week. </p><p> </p><p>“This is not going to be like.. like Ripley,” the voice continues softly as if trying to comfort.</p><p> </p><p>“No, it’s not, Travis, because this is <em> Maya </em>,” Vic states firmly, needing to hear it for herself.</p><p> </p><p>“And she broke protocol,” a new voice states across from me.</p><p> </p><p>Andy retorts, “But Maya doesn’t <em> just </em> break protocol, Jack.”</p><p> </p><p>Jack.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I just slept with Jack an hour ago, so be mad at that. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>The grasp on my phone grows tight as my knuckles whiten and the rest of me freezes. I become a sudden statue on this slightly uncomfortable waiting room chair, instantly swept and overcome by a rage of jealousy and anger. I am amazed my phone screen has not shattered considering the amount of force now pressed against it.</p><p> </p><p><em> Calmati. </em> I try to soothe myself. <em> Rilassati. Non fare niente. </em></p><p> </p><p>Do not do anything. Do not react.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, but Maya’s been doing a hell of a lot of stuff she usually doesn’t. She’s not herself,” Jack points out. “Come on, we’ve all noticed it.” </p><p> </p><p>The more he speaks, the more the anger just boils and threatens to spill over before eventually erupting. I am starting to physically shake. I am silently chanting my new found mantra to myself in hopes that I will listen. <em> Calmati. Rilassati. Calmati. Rilassati </em>. </p><p> </p><p>When he talks about you.. I just.. I am irrationally upset (okay, maybe it is not completely irrational). It is the idea. He <em> talks </em> to you. Do you talk to him? Have you spoken with him more than we have recently? Of course you have. Naturally. You <em> work </em> together. You see each other every day. You <em> have </em> to. How can you not?</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Calmati. Rilassati. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>But <em> that </em> does not make me mad - not at him in this regard, at least. I am mad at myself.</p><p> </p><p>I am mad at myself for making you believe that you could not talk to me. </p><p> </p><p>That you cannot confide in me.</p><p> </p><p>That you cannot tell me what is bothering you.</p><p> </p><p><em> Calmati </em>.</p><p> </p><p>I hate that I have made you feel uncomfortable around me and I hate that I do not even know if I will have a chance to apologize. I should have brought you coffee this morning. I should have stopped by. I should have said something, <em> anything </em>.</p><p> </p><p><em> Rilassati </em>.</p><p> </p><p>Finally, I send the message that I took way too long to draft. I wait for the confirmation that it is delivered--</p><p> </p><p>“So, it does work,” he speaks up again.</p><p> </p><p>I look up. From across the room, he is glaring. He is staring me down.</p><p> </p><p>“Excuse me?” I reply perhaps with more animosity than intended. </p><p> </p><p>“Back off, Gibson,” Miller murmurs from his left, not wanting me to overhear. “Not your place.”</p><p> </p><p>“Your phone,” he clarifies, ignoring any warnings, both spoken and otherwise. “She’s been agonizing trying to talk to you, you know? Do you know how much it’s affected her? You need a clear head to do what we do and hers really hasn’t been since-” </p><p> </p><p>“<em> Da quando tu sei andato a letto con lei </em> !” I snap, immediately on my feet. “ <em> Questo non è colpa mia, disgraziato!” </em> Turning quickly on my heel, I make a beeline to the door that I throw open and storm out. From behind, I hear one of them ask if anyone just so happens to know Italian. I also hear shuffling as someone stands as well and walks after me.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, trust me, you don’t need to know,” I hear Vic respond. “That transcends all language barriers - you’re an ass.”</p><p> </p><p>I walk. I just keep walking, not entirely sure where I am going. I just want to put as much space between me and.. and <em> him </em> as possible, but I also know that I cannot go far, either. I also do not want to. I do not want to be far from you, but.. I also.. I also need.. </p><p> </p><p>The green room, I find empty. Suddenly, I hear all the voices of my colleagues, quoting studies about calmness and serenity or whatever the case. Stepping inside, I expect the door to close behind me, but it remains propped open. It is not until I sit down in the chair furthest away that I look up to find Andy standing there. She points to the empty seat next to me. </p><p> </p><p>With a heavy sigh as I wipe at the corner of my eyes, I nod my head, giving her permission. She closes the door and joins me.</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t think any of us should be alone right now,” she murmurs, trying to explain herself. </p><p> </p><p>Again, I nod. She is not wrong. I pull a leg up, wrap my arms around it, and draw my knee close to my chest - it is the only comfort I have right now, trying to make myself feel small.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry,” she begins. “For-” </p><p> </p><p>“Don’t apologize for him,” I quickly interrupt, shaking my head and giving her a dismissive wave of the hand.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, trust me, I’m not,” Andy reassures me as our eyes meet. “He was completely out of line. There’s absolutely no question about it. I.. I wanted to apologize for the fact that we haven’t properly met before, well, <em> now </em>.” </p><p> </p><p>I nod slowly, “You two.. You have not been on the best of terms lately.” </p><p> </p><p>Andy mimics my nodding. “Yeah, I’ve, uh, I know that I’ve been a pretty shitty best friend,” she confirms. </p><p> </p><p>“And I.. have been a pretty shitty girlfriend,” I follow suit in admission in earnest, swallowing the growing lump in my throat. I have not said a word about any of this to anyone, but now I find myself finally unloading - just not to the right person. “I know that I crossed a line, that I pushed her too hard about her father. A-And I am afraid I will do it again - push her too hard and then.. push her <em> away </em> again. So, I have.. um, <em> come si dice </em>? Leave the ball in her field?” </p><p> </p><p>“In her court,” Andy corrects.</p><p> </p><p>“In her court,” I repeat. “<em> Grazie </em>.” </p><p> </p><p>“<em> De nada </em>,” she replies with a sheepish smile.</p><p> </p><p>“I.. I try not to come off too strong,” I explain. “I do not invite myself nor her over. I do not say anything out of the blue. I try to not force anything because the last time I did, she just.. shut down and then, well..” I shrug. My lower lip begins to tremble, so I tilt my head down and press my face into my knee. “But now I wonder if I did the wrong thing and it is too late,” I mumble against pink scrubs. </p><p> </p><p>After a moment, Andy breaks the silence, “You can’t think like that. <em> We </em> can’t think like that and I know it’s hard to. This whole.. relationship thing? It’s very uncharted territory for Maya. Hell, we met at the fire academy and I don’t think I’ve ever seen her stay in one for more than a couple weeks. There was a point where - and I hate to admit it - where I stopped trying to remember their names.” </p><p> </p><p>“Really now?” I reply in bemusement as I lift my head up, raising my eyebrows. “And how quick did you learn <em> my </em> name, Andy Herrera?” </p><p> </p><p>“Here’s the thing I desperately wish, Doctor Carina DeLuca,” she responds with a small laugh. “The night of the blizzard? When we were stuck at the station? I wish I could have gotten a picture of how badly she blushed when I asked who you were. She tried to play it off like it was nothing, but it was so <em> obvious </em> how smitten she already was.” </p><p> </p><p>My heart flutters in my chest and I cannot help but smile widely, vividly remembering that video chat - it was our very first one, only a few days after we had initially met at Joe’s bar. </p><p> </p><p>“You’re different. <em> This </em> is different,” Andy goes on. “This is all pretty new to her and emotions of <em> any </em> kind are <em> not </em> her strong suit by any means, but man.. Maya? Once she decides that you’re worth it - that she cares about you? No one can care and love as much as that girl can. Sometimes, the execution sucks.” </p><p> </p><p>I nod along, blinking furiously. “Thank you,” I say quietly, just above a whisper.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, no problem,” Andy says just as soft. “Think I needed that reminder, too, honestly.” </p><p> </p><p>“So, then.. what <em> did </em> happen today?” I ask, but before she is able to answer me, the door to the room begins to slowly open. We both look up in unison and immediately stand up when we realize it is Teddy, looking for the two of us. The overwhelming sense of fear returns, stronger than ever, threatening to once more drown me and rid me of the small amount of happiness Andy instilled.</p><p> </p><p>Teddy gives the two of us a reassuring nod and my shoulders automatically fall in response, releasing all the tension that I have been holding so tightly. “She’s alive; she’s stable,” she states and I release a heavy sigh, a breath I did not realize I had been holding in. The tears and emotions that I have been fighting back since all this started flow freely now as I bury my face in my hands. I feel Andy gently patting my back in comfort.</p><p> </p><p>“She has a long way to go,” Teddy explains. “But she’s still here, Carina."</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you for reading! Let me know what you think :) &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Teddy’s words echoed and sat with Carina for the remainder of the day as her colleagues provided her personal updates from the various, necessary procedures that Maya needed. With each development, they were her constant and only company after Maya's team was forced to clear out - another call and they had to return to the station for the rest of their shift. They did not want to leave Maya's side. </p><p>They are her team, after all; she is their captain.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Teddy’s words echoed and sat with me for the remainder of the day as my colleagues provided me personal updates from the various, necessary procedures that you needed. With each development, they were my constant and only company after your team was forced to clear out - another call and they had to return to the station for the rest of their shift. They did not want to leave your side. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They are your team, after all; you are their captain.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Exchanging phone numbers with Andy, she promised that she would drop off your belongings from the station once things settled on all fronts (I also believe that she just wants to </span>
  <em>
    <span>see </span>
  </em>
  <span>you, too). In return, I promised that I would keep them all informed every step of the way. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It gave me something to do instead of being entirely alone with my own thoughts as I waited alone in my office (the waiting room felt too empty with everyone gone and at least here, I did not have to put up a front - I was free to feel, to express, and to process), but I was still left with an unanswered, important question, Maya - what happened? How did we end up here?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Every single step of this turned out to be one of the longest, never ending days of my entire life thus far, but Teddy’s initial assessment from this morning managed to keep me going throughout after each delivered new development and procedure results.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Severe smoke inhalation that led to cardiac arrest enroute to the hospital from the scene of the fire.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“..and we’ll continue to monitor heart function as we continue with the oxygen treatment. We’ve intubated her to help with the breathing…”  </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She is alive.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Bruised and broken ribs due to CPR administered at the scene.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“..avoided all internal organs, so the only thing we can do is ensure that she rests and takes it easy…” </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She is stable.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Head laceration with a linear skull fracture due to blunt impact of faulty installed ceiling beam.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“..consider it lucky we are only dealing with a linear skull fracture. No intervention necessary. No brain swelling. We’ll continue to monitor, of course. Stitched up the head lac…” </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She has a long way to go.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Broken right leg - fractured in multiple places, also due to impact of another ceiling beam collapse.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“..surgery went well. We were able to stabilize the fractures internally with rods and screws. An external fixation isn’t needed…” </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>But she’s still here, Carina.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Third degree burns on the right arm from high burning fire caused by subpar building materials.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“..applied the donor skin from the inner thigh to the burn sight using a mesh graft…” </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She is alive.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Those words - they were my reminder and reassurance that you are </span>
  <em>
    <span>still </span>
  </em>
  <span>here and that we </span>
  <em>
    <span>still </span>
  </em>
  <span>have a chance, especially when it seemed that news and procedures were steadily becoming overwhelming. A chance at what exactly, though? I am not entirely sure, honestly. I am not able to properly describe it, but it is a </span>
  <em>
    <span>chance</span>
  </em>
  <span>, regardless, and it is something I did not think we had when you were rolled passed me in the hallway this morning, lifeless.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This chance, whatever we make of it and whatever happens as a result, I want to take it with you, Maya.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When I finally get to see you, it is late in the evening. Exhaustion forgotten as I hover outside of your ICU room door, it is replaced by a looming, dreadful sense of fear that Doctor DeLuca would be able to reason with: ICU is standard treatment for what you endured. You are being monitored. You are being treated. You are in the process of getting better and will be moved in a day or two, depending on how you progress. And </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>is why you are here.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But me, Carina? I am very much hyper fixating on the fact that ICU stands for intensive care unit.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Inhaling deeply, I close my eyes for a second, still standing right outside the only thing physically separating us: this door.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I hold my breath and slowly count to ten, trying to ground myself - trying to prepare myself for what I am about to walk in on.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As I exhale, I finally summon enough courage to open the door and take a step inside, a step inside a familiar environment that I have seen a few times in my professional life. It is a sight I never wanted in my personal one.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The sight of you stops me right there in the doorway. You lay motionless - asleep - in that hospital bed and, although you look so much better than you did this morning (some color has returned to your face, but you are still a bit pale), you are still.. you are injured, covered in bandages and a cast - I do not want to see you like this. It physically pains me to see you like this; my heart feels as if it is slowly being torn from my chest, as if it should also be laying there with you.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The beeping of machines hooked up to you - monitoring you - is the only sound keeping the desolate room from silence.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Forcing myself to regain a little composure, I take a single step into the room and allow for the door to close behind me. Once done, I take the cautious steps to the foot on your bed. Placing my hands on the end frame, my shoulders slump as I sigh, just taking in the sight of you - you are a far cry from how I remember: my brave firefighter, nearly always standing at attention, and almost always as serious until I cracked that tough facade of yours. You have a beautiful smile, Maya. It lights up your whole face and makes your blue eyes twinkle with delight.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I want to see it again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Listening to repeating, monotonous beeps that seem to reverberate with every beat: she’s. still. here., I round the bed and grab the armrest of the chair pushed up against the wall. I pull it over to your bedside before taking a seat next to you. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Sono qui, bella</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” I say gently, reaching out and placing my hand over yours that rests against the mattress. I give it a tiny squeeze and then continue to rub tiny circles on the back of your hand with my thumb. “I am right here.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Of course, I do not expect you to answer. You physically cannot, nor will you wake any time soon - not tonight, at least, but I like to think that you can hear me - that you are listening.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You really gave us.. </span>
  <em>
    <span>quite</span>
  </em>
  <span> a scare today, Maya,” I mumble, gaze never faltering from you. I did not want to look away. “You know, I, uh, I even found myself in the hospital chapel - I have never been before.”  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I grew up in a very Catholic environment, to say the very least. I half jokingly told you that you can accidentally stumble into a Catholic church in Italy. It was part of my childhood. I mean, the reason I was named Carina to begin with is the fact that my birthday - November 7th - is Saint Carina’s feast day. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So, named after a martyr killed by the ancient Romans. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sometimes, I like to joke and point out that </span>
  <em>
    <span>carina</span>
  </em>
  <span> is also Italian for cute -- and I was a pretty cute baby, if I do say so myself.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I even went to Catholic school from kindergarten all the way through high school. You found this so amusing when I initially told you. Without missing a beat, you asked me how I looked in that uniform. The memory makes me chuckle lightly. I promised I would find you a photo. </span>
</p><p>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>Still need to do that.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And in the back of the chapel,” I continue. “There is this little area in the corner, where you can light a candle and say a prayer. I have not done it in </span>
  <em>
    <span>years</span>
  </em>
  <span> - I lit a candle. It.. it gave me an odd sense of comfort. Like it did last time, which I think was.. when my </span>
  <em>
    <span>mamma</span>
  </em>
  <span> died. I think that was the last time I was in a church - let’s not tell her that. Our secret, </span>
  <em>
    <span>va bene</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Why the need to tease and joke? Dunno. Maybe it would not feel as though I am talking to you if I am not? Maybe I am realizing that this is the most I have said to you in nearly two weeks? Maybe it helps put me at ease? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Maybe I unreasonably hope that, somehow, I will hear your precious laugh that I find myself missing so dearly.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Before I can say anything more, there is a knock at the door and I half expect a nurse to come on in to check up on you. Instead, I spot Andy, still in uniform and still on the clock, peeking and then coming in. She stops at the exact same spot that I did; she goes through the same ring of emotions that I experienced taking everything in. Her shoulders drop slightly, but she keeps a firm grip on the duffle bag - the personal items you brought to work this morning, as she said.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I know,” I try to comfort. “But-” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“She’s still here, yeah,” Andy finishes for me. She drags herself over to the only other chair in the room. After placing the bag down next to it, she pulls the chair over to me and sits down. Her eyes never leave you once. As I watch her, I never let go of your hand.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Honestly, I never want to let go again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>We sit in silence. I do not know what to say to lighten the situation, to make anything better. I feel as though I have already told her everything and that anything I could potentially say now would just be repetitive and redundant. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“From what we were able to piece together, the kid wasn’t in the house we were sweeping,” Andy speaks up. I turn my head towards her and her eyes are locked on you. “She was in the other house, hiding. Her friend..” she pauses for a moment to sigh heavily. “He ran up to the first firefighter he saw and I mean.. especially to some of these kids, they see that uniform and they see a hero. They see help.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When Andy wipes at the corner of her eyes, I turn back to you, blinking furiously as to try to keep any sense of composure.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Comms were down and there </span>
  <em>
    <span>will</span>
  </em>
  <span> be an investigation,” Andy goes on. “We don’t know why - don’t know what happened. She couldn’t reach us, so, hell, she did what any one of us would have done. When we all realized what had happened, she.. she was trapped inside for way longer than she should have been. </span>
  <em>
    <span>None </span>
  </em>
  <span>of this should have happened.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I know,” I say softly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We should have been there for her.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Andy.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We failed our captain-” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You cannot think like that,” I immediately interrupt. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>We are now staring at each other. Once again, Andy sighs heavily. She lowers her head into her hand and rubs her forehead. It has been a long day for all of us. We are tired. Emotions are getting the better of each of us.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Why…” she begins slowly. “Why does it take such a traumatic event for us to realize how terrible we’ve been?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Because we are human,” I respond without missing a beat. “We are human and sometimes we refuse to see - or just cannot see - how our actions negatively impact those around us. We do not realize how much unwarranted resentment we can carry with us until it is too late - or nearly too late, in this case.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Andy nods along. I look down at the floor, suddenly feeling overwhelmed by another sense of guilt that visits me from time to time.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I told you, Maya, about my mother’s rather sudden death when she came back to Italy to visit me while I was still in med school and how understandably traumatic it had been for me, that I was forced to handle everything by myself. Since the divorce when we were kids, </span>
  <em>
    <span>papà </span>
  </em>
  <span>wanted nothing to do with </span>
  <em>
    <span>mamma</span>
  </em>
  <span> and I did not tell Andrea what happened until he was actually in Italy. You know all this.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>What I never told you is that.. I resented my mother for leaving my father. No, not so much leaving my father, but for leaving </span>
  <em>
    <span>me</span>
  </em>
  <span> with him. I could not help but feel abandoned. What child wouldn’t? Do not get me wrong - I loved her. I love my </span>
  <em>
    <span>mamma</span>
  </em>
  <span> so much, even after she moved to the States with Andrea, but there was always a part of me that wondered what life would have been like if I had been able to go with the two of them. What would my life would have been like if I did not have to carefully tip toe around my father’s mood swings? If I did not have to be his keeper, but an actual child? A teenager? A young adult? If I did not have to live in his shadow?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I did not.. really realize just how much bitterness I carried with me until after she passed away. I did not have the chance to talk to her about any of it because it was much too late. It took me years to come to terms with my own struggles, Maya.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I need to get back to the station,” Andy speaks up, bringing me crashing down back to reality. I watch her stand up and push the chair back. She points at the duffle bag. “Don’t ask me why I know this, but.. you need to check her phone. Your messages -- don’t ask!” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Keeping the question to myself, I nod and we say our goodbyes. I wait until the room is just ours again and I finally let go of your hand in order to fetch your phone from your belongings. I do what Andy asks of me and I immediately spot your undelivered message from this morning.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Listen, Carina, no more small talk; it gets us nowhere and I know that it’s absolutely MY fault. I don’t know why I feel like I suddenly can’t talk to you. It’s all I want to do. I want to see you. I want to talk to you. So, can we?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Biting down on my lip, my eyes sting hot and my vision blurs slightly as a result. This time, I let the tears silently fall instead of holding them in, as I have been doing for the majority of the day; I let myself cry, even if it is quietly to myself (just in case you </span>
  <em>
    <span>can</span>
  </em>
  <span> hear me, I do not want you to hear </span>
  <em>
    <span>this</span>
  </em>
  <span>). I press down on the message until it gives me the option to resend the text.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And I do.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Within seconds, my own phone in my pocket vibrates.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Sì, amore</span>
  </em>
  <span>, we can. We can talk. We </span>
  <em>
    <span>will</span>
  </em>
  <span> talk.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hopefully, soon.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Sorry for the late chapter. Time kinda got away from me. There was an emergency open heart surgery in the family (they’re fine now/recovering!) and then I just.. didn’t want to deal with anything medical and, well… *gestures at fic*, so I became a Pokemon master/not an adult for like five days. But! It’s updated now! As always, let me know what you think :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>And as much as Maya doesn't want to admit to any form of defeat or weakness due to an inflated, stupidly stubborn sense of her own pride because, well, god damn, she doesn't ever lose and she doesn't ever give in: she can’t push through this. She can’t. She can’t see the finish line. She just fucking can’t.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>So, the pain? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As I feel myself struggling to come through and wake up, the pain is a dull pulsing wave at first and difficult to pinpoint its origins exactly - barely noticeable at all. I’d call it an annoyance at best, really, but it’s steadily increasing, ensuring that its presence is well known. It’s not going to hide and it’s not going to be quiet. As it begins to boil over, I try to focus on something else -anything else - and push through it. Push through it, endure, and it will end - that’s what I was taught since I was little. That’s what I know. It’s how I deal with every single problem. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Except, it’s not - the pain, I mean. It’s not ending; if anything, it keeps growing and I can’t tell where it’s coming from exactly - it almost feels like an invasion of my whole entire body. Boiling over, no - </span>
  <em>
    <span>erupting</span>
  </em>
  <span> across my entire being, my whole freaking body </span>
  <em>
    <span>hurts</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Those painful waves are no longer dull and pulsing throughout, they are now sharp and crashing.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And as much as I don’t want to admit to any form of defeat or weakness due to an inflated, stupidly stubborn sense of my own pride because, well, god damn, I don’t ever lose and I don’t ever give in: I can’t push through this. I can’t. I can’t see the finish line. I just fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>can’t</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>Desperately, I want it to stop and to be over - all of whatever the hell this is. But how do I make it stop? How do I do that? I can’t find my voice, not even a meek whimper. It’s too much. I try to move any part of my body to no avail, however small, but it makes the pain slightly worse than it was, so there’s that - just making the whole damn situation worse. I don’t even have enough strength to freaking open my eyes. Hell, even </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>feels like too much right now. Pathetic. Such an unfeasible and impossible task. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’m trapped. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Absolutely trapped.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Stuck.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Off to the distance, just to my left - at least what seems like it’s far away, I hear discombobulating mumbling of a person’s voice. They’re sounds that I utterly fail to put together into anything that can be considered even a tiny bit comprehensible. There’s a slight pressure on my left arm all of a sudden, but it only remains there for a short lingering moment because the mumbling voice, that now doesn’t sound quiet as far, moves around me and then away from me. As it moves away, it grows a bit louder, as if calling out, and demanding. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Still can’t understand a thing; I’m trying, though.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Suddenly, there are two different mumbling voices coming in from my right, I think. One stays there at the right - it’s completely unfamiliar. It comes closer to me, almost hovering over me, as the original returns to my left - that one has a sense of familiarity. The light pressure is back on my forearm. The mumbling turns into a quick, back and forth conversation - still can’t make out a single word from either. As quick as started, it disappeared. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>After a moment of silence, the original mumbling returns; the pressure on my arm now moves up and down in a slow, repetitive motion - a pattern. Up and down. Up and down. It’s soothing; it’s distracting; and it’s everything that I didn’t know I need right now to push me through and get me to the finish line that I couldn’t bring myself to. It gives me something to focus on - just focus on the movement: up and down. Up and down.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The waves of pain begin to subside. Up and down. The voice starts to get a tiny bit clearer. Up and down. It’s warm and melodic. Up and down. The pain is almost nonexistent. Up and down. Sounds finally weave together into familiar patterns. Up and down. The pain fades away completely. Up and down. And your sweet voice is clear. Up and down.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>...tranquilla, okay?</span>
  </em>
  <span>” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s you.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Dormi, ancora.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You’re here.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Dovresti dormire, bella.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Carina.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Once so tense and cramped, I feel every single muscle in my body finally start to relax. Up and down. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I</span>
  </em>
  <span> start to relax.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When you speak Italian, I have absolutely </span>
  <em>
    <span>no idea</span>
  </em>
  <span> what you’re saying, for the most part, but I don’t mind. Far from it. I love it and I love listening to you speak it, even when I don’t understand a single word - it’s your native language. Hearing it makes me feel closer to the authentic you. You’re more at ease when you do. I don’t know how else to explain it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s one quote that you love telling me and have for the last couple of months, but you refuse to translate it for me - said I wasn’t ready yet. As curious as I was - as I </span>
  <em>
    <span>am</span>
  </em>
  <span>, I promised you I wouldn’t look it up, either. And, true to my word, I haven’t.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Though, truth be told, I probably wouldn’t be able to nail the spelling anyway, if I tried.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But you’ve said it enough times that I’ve committed it to memory at this point: </span>
  <em>
    <span>l’amore è quella cosa che tu sei da una parte, lei dall’altra, e gli sconosciuti si accorgono che vi amate.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The only word that I know with any sense of certainty: </span>
  <em>
    <span>l’amore</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Love.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I love you, Carina.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I </span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span> love you.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Ti voglio bene,</span>
  </em>
  <span>” you say softly to me, as if you could actually hear my own personal thoughts. You’re still caressing my arm. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Ti amo</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” you quietly add.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And I am absolute shit at showing you. I’m sorry.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’m so sorry.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But you? Damn, you’re so good at it. The little messages, the gentle touching, and small gestures, among other things - all of it comes second nature to you. You don’t have to think about it. Not one thought. Me? This is all so new to me. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing and that’s not something I can say often. And, on top of that, there’s also the little fact that I’ve massively fucked it all up beyond salvation. No question about it and for no good reason.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And you still took me back. I don’t deserve you. I really don’t.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’m absolutely </span>
  <em>
    <span>great</span>
  </em>
  <span> at self destruction. The best, actually.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I </span>
  <em>
    <span>do </span>
  </em>
  <span>love you, though, Carina, and I’m trying to learn. I’m trying to.. unfuck things up - maybe not as hard as I should have been.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Again, I am learning.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Tranquilla,</span>
  </em>
  <span>” you repeat, gently, as you lull me back into sleep. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Dormi, Maya.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>--</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The next time I regain consciousness - actual consciousness this time where I actually have the strength to open my eyes, which was still a bit of a struggle (man, I feel so.. sluggish and slow), I realize where I am, even in the poor lighting due to the blinds blocking the sun: this is a hospital room. This is Grey Sloan. Feeling the bandages on my head and the sight of my arm and leg, yeah, this is exactly where I should be right now.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And suddenly the escalating pain from before had made sense. At the moment, I feel fine - as fine as I can be, I guess? Truth be told, I feel fuzzy and like I’m floating on a cloud. I catch the morphine drip on my right from the corner of my eye. The urge to personally thank it for its service is rather great and tempting.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’m not sure how I ended up here in the hospital, exactly, but I could probably piece it together soon enough and with a fair amount of accuracy, too: really bad, terrible, shitty, insert-every-negative-adjective-here work day.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Turning to my left, I see you. You’re curled up, somehow asleep, in an armchair and it makes me wonder who between the two of us is currently the most uncomfortable - I’d call it an even tie. Huddling under a blanket, I spot a teddy bear resting under your chin. You’re holding it close to your chest.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But I see you there - I see you for the first time in, well, probably more than ten days now, I guess - and my heart can’t help but skip a beat. I also saw this coming: I momentarily forget how to breathe properly. You still manage to knock the damn wind out of me every single time and I don’t understand how you can still have that profound effect over me.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As glad as I am that you’re here and I am happy to see you, I can’t help but wonder why. I mean, not why you’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>here</span>
  </em>
  <span> here in this room, but why you’re sleeping on that uncomfortable armchair when I know very well that there’s a perfectly good couch in your office here. Pretty comfortable one at that, too - we’ve, huh, tried it out a couple of times here and there.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>For.. comfortability. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Clearly.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ca-,” I try to speak and call out to you, though speaking really is not the right word. Croaking seems to be a bit more appropriate - definitely on par with a dying frog. Honestly, the sound that comes out of my mouth doesn’t even sound human. My throat feels as though it’s been slashed by a thousand knives and it’s incredibly dry. When I try again, my voice fails me and I cough. Immediately wincing and grinding my teeth from the pain, I can’t really tell or know what hurts more than the other: my throat or my damn chest. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Shit, did I break some ribs, too?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When I open my eyes again, you’re there, awake, standing at my side - I didn’t even hear you get up. As the bed begins to rise to help me sit up, you place a gentle hand on my shoulder and give it a soft squeeze.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey,” I whisper. It hurts less and at least I can talk to you.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey,” you reply back, just as soft. You smile, but your lip quivers and your eyes glisten. God, please don’t cry. Please.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I flash you a small smile in return, anything to try to tell you that I’m kinda okay. “You look </span>
  <em>
    <span>rough</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” I try to tease.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You let out a short, quick laugh in response that you try to hide quickly behind your hand. Personal mission accomplished. “And you, </span>
  <em>
    <span>bella</span>
  </em>
  <span>, look almost as good as me,” you tease me right back, wiping at the corner of your eyes. It’s really good to hear your voice - to hear your laugh.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I could never look as good as you,” I shoot back without missing a beat.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The hand you rested on my shoulder now caressing my cheek. That touch, that skin-on-skin contact, causes my heart to race slightly. Even if I want to play it cool, I’m instantly betrayed by the damn heart monitor. Glad that you didn’t call attention to it, though it is prime teasing material, I turn my head towards it in order to press a small kiss against your palm.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“How are you feeling?” you ask.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m..” my voice trails off slightly. “I’m okay - I mean, I’ve been better.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“On a scale from one to ten,” you begin. “Ten being the worst pain you’ve ever felt in your life, how do you feel?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well, there, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Doctor DeLuca</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” I murmur and then shrug my shoulders. “I think I’m at a two. Maybe even one.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Narrowing your eyes, you pull your hand away. You see through my bullshit even before I can realize that I’m doing it. Tilting your head to the side, you ask again, “Now drop the macho fire captain facade and tell me the truth, please.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I take a moment before responding honestly this time: “Four or five.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You nod and begin to walk away from me, “Okay - I can find a nurse. I think we can give you some more morphine. I don’t think they maxed-” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Don’t,” I quickly interrupt and grab your hand to stop you in your tracks. “I.. don’t go? I’m okay. I can deal with it.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Maya, you don’t have to-” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I swear, I’m okay,” I stress.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Our eyes meet and there’s a moment of silence as we stare each other down. In the end, you cave and pull the armchair over to the side of my bed. Picking up the bear that I now see is dressed as a firefighter of all things, you sit back down and hold the plush toy against your chest.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Missed sleeping with me so much you got a substitute?” I poke fun, nodding towards the bear. “Are you going to introduce me to your new friend?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Smiling as you look down at it, you hold the teddy out to me to grab. Upon closer inspection, I even see a makeshift gold medal hanging around its neck. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Andy and Vic stopped by yesterday afternoon,” you begin to explain. “They thought you’d be awake, but.. your medical team figured it would be best to give you another day of rest-” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“How long have I been here?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“This is day three.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“..oh,” I mumble with a frown. Then the thought crosses my mind: the reason why I ended up here in the first place. “What happened to the kid? The girl from the fire?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“She..” you pause momentarily. “She was brought in right behind you.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“She was transferred,” you answer.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I frown, “Any way to find out how she’s doing?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, I’ll look into it,” you reply before continuing. “So, they - Andy and Vic - stopped by yesterday, and Vic had this to give you. She said you don’t like flowers and you’re a bit of a chocolate snob-” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I am not a chocolate snob, I just know what I like,” I correct. “There’s a difference.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Chocolate snob</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” you repeat with a slight smirk. “So she went to this shop in the mall - Build A Toy?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Build A Bear,” I correct.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Esatto</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” you confirm. “And she picked it up for you. The medal, she had to make herself, though. She was rather proud of it.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Definitely looks like a Vic original,” I grin, looking the bear over. “You look cute cuddling it, too.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Without missing a beat, you respond, “I’ve missed falling asleep next to a firefighter.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Looking up from the bear, I catch you watching me carefully, waiting for a reaction. “I’ve.. I’ve missed you, too, Carina. A lot,” I admit. “I’m sorry for-” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We don’t have to do this right now, Maya,” you interject, shaking your head. “Let’s.. let’s concentrate on getting you better first, okay?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>With a sigh, I nod. You’re probably right. No, you’re definitely right. I should get used to trying this one thing at a time.. thing. I look back at the bear and then hold it out to you. “Keep it for me,” I say. “Until you can fall asleep next to an actual firefighter again.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Taking the bear, you hold it close again, smiling sweetly at the proposed idea. “Maybe we can get you a little doctor bear as a placeholder?” you offer. “Maybe we can find pink scrubs.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I laugh and wince. It fucking hurts, but I also kinda don’t mind - you’re the one making me laugh. “I’d like that - matching bears.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“A teddy bear couple,” you grin, hugging the plush toy more tightly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A comfortable silence lulls between us. The initial adrenaline from seeing you wears off and I realize how </span>
  <em>
    <span>tired</span>
  </em>
  <span> I still am, but at least I’m on a bed. You’ve been confined to that chair for god knows how long.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Actually… no, really - how long though?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Have you.. Carina, have you been here the whole time?” I speak up.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>At first, you hesitate to answer, but that’s really all I need to confirm what I’m thinking. You have. You’ve been here the whole time. Every day. For three days. Needlessly, you nod, “I wanted to make sure you were okay - you gave all of us quite a scare, Maya..” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Three days? On </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> chair?” I ask. “Listen.. I’m okay now, okay? So, maybe-” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Maya..” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Don’t do a fourth night on that chair, please,” I state. My voice is starting to feel strained; I’m feeling a bit hyperware of the pain now. “Or a fourth night in the hospital, not when you have access to an actual comfy bed.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“..and the firefighter bear to keep me company,” you add softly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Firefighter bear to keep you company,” I repeat, nodding. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m not leaving until tonight,” you stress.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Didn’t expect you to. Don’t want you to,” I reassure. “Do me a favor, though?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Anything, </span>
  <em>
    <span>bella</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Can you find a nurse now..?”</span>
</p><p><br/>
<span>With a half nod, you stand up and pass the bear that I hold in a one arm hug. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Ritorno subito</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” you assure. “I’ll be right back.” </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you for taking the time to read. Let me know what you think! Definitely made the second part of this chapter a bit more fluffy as an apology for the roller coaster that has been last few chapt-- this whole fic? :)  Also laid out some future ground work (both good and bad, unfortunately).</p><p>Quick question: thus far, the format has been two chapters per pov before switching to the other (so, 2 Carina, 2 Maya, etc.). Should I keep with this format, or should I switch to one chapter (1 Carina, 1 Maya, etc.)?</p><p>Grazie &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>And considering how fast Carina gave in to that proposed deal now knowing that Maya is reasonably okay, Maya concluded three things: 1. Carina’s as drained as Maya, 2. Carina's been so freaking uncomfortable, and 3. Carina willingly did all this for Maya's sake - and would have continued to do so if Maya had not asked her to stop.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Soon after you looked for a nurse out in the hallway and after the extra morphine began to kick in, another wave of pure exhaustion hit me once again like a pile of bricks. For someone who has been asleep for literally two days, why can I not get enough? And although I was pining to spend more time with you instead, you assured me that I needed the extra sleep and the rest, that my body had been through a lot the last couple of days (understatement).  Foolishly thinking I had any control over the exhaustion by any means, I said I would only sleep if you did the same - not on that damn armchair anymore, though. I could tell by the way you were holding yourself and trying to hide your own wincing that your back was more than a little sore. I still can’t believe that you’ve been here the whole time.</p><p> </p><p>And considering how fast you gave in to that proposed deal now knowing that I am reasonably okay, I concluded three things: 1. you’re as drained as me, 2. you’ve been so freaking uncomfortable, and 3. you willingly did all this for my sake - and would have continued to do so if I had not asked you to stop. I don’t deserve you, Carina, and I know that I should stop telling myself that, but I’m also beyond grateful that you seem to think that I do.</p><p> </p><p>Before parting ways with you and Firefighter Bear, you gave me my fully charged phone and reminded me that you were literally only a text away, literally. You’d come running from the other side of the hospital, if you had to (and that wouldn’t be necessary, but the sentiment is the same). We made plans to reconvene after our respective naps for lunch - that you would bring up garlic truffle fries from that place we like so much. Definitely something to look forward to - something to feign a sense of normalcy in all this.</p><p> </p><p>I wake up before you’re back - your message, actually, is what wakes me: <em> In case you are already up, I wanted to let you know that I am on my way back to the hospital </em>. It’s one message in a sea of messages on my locked home screen from the team - good call on your part for turning on the ‘do not disturb’ feature, but there was one oversight you didn’t predict: you were on my list of exceptions.</p><p> </p><p>Ignoring the other messages (at least for now) while trying to shake off the grogginess, I unlock my phone in order to answer you back. Before I even begin my response, I freeze. I see it immediately. </p><p> </p><p>It was sent.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Listen, Carina, no more small talk; it gets us nowhere and I know that it’s absolutely MY fault. I don’t know why I feel like I suddenly can’t talk to you. It’s all I want to do. I want to see you. I want to talk to you. So, can we? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>There’s no turning back now.</p><p> </p><p>It’s out in the open.</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>My throat dries even more, which I didn’t think was possible. It almost feels as if it’s closing in on itself. Setting my phone down in my lap, I rub my neck, as if that would do anything to alleviate a damn thing. And, god, it’s hot in here - when did it get so freaking warm? I try breathing, but it’s nothing but short. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Why can’t I breathe? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>How </span>
  </em>
  <span>do I breathe? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Am I feeling faint? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Is it the medications? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Why did that message finally send? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Did you even read it? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>If you did, then why didn’t you respond to it? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Do you want to talk? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You want to talk, right? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Right? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Otherwise, you wouldn’t be here, right? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>For three days? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>No, you definitely wanted to talk, then, right? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>How fast is my heart beating? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Is that pain in my chest? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Is my heart racing? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Is that monitor supposed to be beeping that fast?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When a pair of nurses come running into my room, I conclude that the answer is a rounding ‘no,’ not supposed to be beating that fast, it seems. Apparently, they come running pretty damn fast when that thing spikes if one the reasons that put you in the hospital is smoke inhalation and cardiac arrest.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>They’d probably come running pretty damn fast, regardless.</p><p> </p><p>After a series of quick check ups to ensure that I am still okay, they both leave me to lie silently in my own personal pool of deep embarrassment. Standard, book definition panic attack, they confirmed. I fed them some bullshit excuse - a nightmare about the fire. At the moment, it sounded a lot better than ‘the idea of having a conversation about my own insecurities to my saint of a girlfriend scares the crap out of me.’ </p><p> </p><p>“Why am I like this?” I groan to myself, covering my eyes with my hand. Out of annoyance at myself, I sigh heavily.</p><p> </p><p>“Are you okay, <em> bella </em>?” </p><p> </p><p>The sudden return of your voice causes me to jump and, well, the sudden movement makes me hiss sharply as I wince. Honestly, how can you move without making a damn sound? I thought <em> I </em> was the sneaky one good at jump scares. “Just peachy,” I murmur, as I struggle to pull myself up to a sitting position. </p><p> </p><p>Setting the paper bag of our lunch and drinks on the rolling tray, you come to my side and help pull me up. “<em> Piano. </em> Easy, okay? I asked if you were awake and they told me outside that you just had an anxiety attack - is everything alright?” </p><p> </p><p>Your eyes immediately turn to the monitor as the pace begins to pick up again. Out of frustration of being betrayed literally by my own heart, I take the damn sensor off my finger. I don’t look up at you. I can’t. Instead, I stare forward towards the wall. You place a gentle hand on my forearm and I swallow hard, trying to focus on my breathing as I’m slightly distracted by your movement - up and down. I resist the urge to pull away, but there’s also a part of me that doesn’t want to. I’m torn - in more ways than one - and I just want to lash out.</p><p> </p><p>Because that’s how I handle everything.</p><p> </p><p>Lashing out.</p><p> </p><p>God, what the hell is wrong with me?</p><p> </p><p>“Tell me what’s bothering you?” you ask softly, sitting down on that <em> stupid </em> armchair so you could be more on my level, at least. “If, uh, you think that will help - I don’t want to force you to do anything, Maya,” you quickly add as an afterthought. </p><p> </p><p>Is this really what’s become of us? </p><p> </p><p>Walking on eggshells?</p><p> </p><p>There’s a part of me that wants to just feed you the same bull I gave the two nurses that rushed in here and call it a day (avoidance, I’m rather good at it): it was nightmares, but I think we’ve already crossed that bridge.</p><p> </p><p>You’ve made it clear that you can see right through me.</p><p> </p><p>“I..” I begin after taking a shaky breath, but I pause and shake my head, already second guessing myself - already not sure if I can do this or if I even should. You now give my forearm a gentle, reassuring squeeze. I force myself to look at you, to maintain eye contact, but when you give me that small smile, I need to look away.</p><p> </p><p>Gesturing at my phone that’s still on my lap, I shake my head and try to start my explanation again, “I know.. I know that you got that message and that <em> terrifies </em> me.” </p><p> </p><p>“You have no reason to be terrified, Maya,” you try to reassure, but it falls on deaf ears for the time being. “I’m-”</p><p> </p><p>“The idea of talking to you about everything terrifies me,” I try to clarify as I interrupt, but I’m also slightly convinced that I’m not making the matter any better or any clearer. I don’t even think I can explain it to myself, truth be told. “Because.. because I don’t know how to address it - <em> anything </em> . Fuck, I don’t know how to talk to you about this because I don’t want to hurt you again and I just. I don’t know. I don’t <em> know </em>.” </p><p> </p><p>Your hand snakes down my forearm, past my wrist, and you lace your fingers with mine. You pull my hand up and lower your head to place a tender kiss against my own. “May I confess something as well?” you ask, not looking up from our intertwined hands. You didn’t wait for me to answer - you already know what it would be anyway. “I pushed you way too far that day and I was not listening to what you wanted or needed. Now I fear that I will do it again - push you too hard,” you admit with a tiny shrug of your shoulders as you continue to speak. “So, I have been.. trying not to.” </p><p> </p><p>“We.. seems like we both have some work to do,” I murmur, grabbing your attention. I flash you a small, sad smile. You give my hand another kiss as you offer me a half nod in agreement.</p><p> </p><p>“Thank you for telling me, <em> bella </em>,” you say, now gently massaging the back of my hand. “I know how courageous it is for you. I know how you find it difficult to talk about..” your voice trails off for a second.</p><p> </p><p>“Weaknesses?” I try to finish that thought for you.</p><p> </p><p>“Emotions,” you correct, however. “It is not a weakness to let yourself feel what you are feeling, both the good and the bad - all of it, and to discuss it. Express it. It may even be helpful and, I know I have said it before, but I will say it again, as many times as I need to: I <em> am </em> here to listen to you, if that is what you want -- and if it is not, that is okay, too. I won’t take it personally, but talk to someone.”</p><p> </p><p>Now, it’s my turn to pull our intertwined hands over for a small kiss. You give me a small, soft laugh in return - one of my favorite sounds in the world. I don’t know how I went nearly my whole life, until this year, without it.</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t deserve you,” I whisper against it.</p><p> </p><p>“You deserve the world, Maya, you truly do - all of it,” you immediately respond. “And the sooner you let yourself see that, the better it will be.”</p><p> </p><p>With some difficulty, I resist the urge to mutter that statement over again; you don’t want to hear it because you don’t believe it whereas I’m still struggling to find any truth in it. So, instead, I don’t say a word. You break the sudden silence between us by grabbing the nearly forgotten bag on food. </p><p> </p><p>“You also deserve these garlic truffle fries,” you point out. “There are also deep fried pickles.” </p><p> </p><p>“I don’t.. really like the deep fried pickles.” </p><p> </p><p>“I know. Those, <em> I </em> deserve,” you’re quick to remark with a wide grin as you wiggle your eyebrows. “They were out of mozzarella sticks.”</p><p> </p><p>I can’t help but laugh as you unpack the goods. Any lingering uneasiness in the room dissipates. I don’t say it, but the thought <em> is </em> still there and I know it’s going to take a lot of work to break myself from the habit. Until then though: I really don’t deserve you, Carina DeLuca. I don’t deserve a girlfriend who will camp out three days in a hospital room while I’m unconscious; a girlfriend who will sneak away to one of our favorite nearby dive bars for french fries so I don’t have to eat hospital food; or a girlfriend will sit in and takes notes about post-hospital care with me as I see every doctor that had helped me over the last few days.</p><p> </p><p>But I really want to try to be the person who does.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thanks for the feedback to last chapter's question! For now, I'm going to keep it 2 chapters per pov as that seemed to be the general  consensus. &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>That is the curse of loving someone, is it not? Knowing that your love will one day end in heartbreak in one way or another, as much as you hope and pray for an end to never come. It eventually will. It always does. Although we want to believe that love is eternal, reality will always show us a different outcome. </p><p>Life and love are both so damn fragile.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Resisting the urge to just collapse onto the couch with the teddy bear tucked under my arm as I enter the house that has remained frozen in time for the last three days, I force myself to cross the living room as I text you - as promised: <em> I made it home, bella. After a quick shower and dinner, I am going to go to sleep. See you in the morning. </em> Before I could even reach the top of the stairs, you write back.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Can’t wait. Dream of me? :) </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Cannot help but laugh, perhaps a bit more bitter than intended, but I smile genuinely at my phone as I enter my bedroom. For now, I abandon our Firefighter Bear on my bed and I proceed into the bathroom. Better there than forgotten in my office. Luckily, I remembered to stop by after our long garlic truffle fries picnic.</p><p> </p><p><em> Sempre </em>. I respond simply. Always.</p><p> </p><p>Turning on my music, I set my phone down on the counter and then look at myself in the mirror - <em> truly </em> look at myself. The last three days have taken their toll on me. Freeing it from the ponytail, I notice by the way it falls, or fails to in this matter, that my hair is a complete mess, in every single way. The dark circles under my eyes give away the pure utter exhaustion I am struggling to overcome. Placing my hands on the edge of the counter, I lean forward for closer inspection.</p><p> </p><p>I am <em> tired </em>. </p><p> </p><p>I do not remember the last time I was <em> this </em> tired.</p><p> </p><p>This is not how I anticipated my week going. The only tension I envisioned would’ve come from Andrea’s lack of communication from his residential treatment facility. The lack of communication also provides me with a twisted sense of comfort as well. As they say, no news is good news, no?</p><p> </p><p>I am sure he is doing fine where he is, but.. some form - any form - of substantial confirmation would have been more than nice.</p><p> </p><p>And that would have been the extent of my week of going to work and coming straight back home to an empty house, wondering if that evening would be the evening you would move past ‘how are you?’ before coming to another inevitable conclusion of a silent night with a glass of wine and whatever mundane program that would be trending on one of the million streaming services.</p><p> </p><p>As lonely as the week I projected for myself would have been, it is one I would have accepted gladly, although, now knowing how my reality would actually come to unfold - a complete nightmare, to put it very lightly. Whenever I close my eyes, I still see it - I still see <em> you </em>. All the color, all matter of life void from your face as blood trickles down the side of your head; your motionless body jerking with each chest compression. It is a vision that comes to me when I have tried to sleep the last few nights.</p><p> </p><p>My biggest concern this week should have been whether or not you would text me back, not whether or not you would live.</p><p> </p><p>Sleeping has become so incredibly difficult - and it is not due solely to the armchair you have taken a personal <em> vendetta </em> against, no. You see, I <em> do </em> dream of you, Maya, when I do manage to sleep against my wishes, but they are not the dreams that you hope for me. </p><p> </p><p>You, trapped in that damn house fire, unable to free yourself.</p><p> </p><p>Or you, trapped in that fire with your team unable to reach you in time.</p><p> </p><p>Or you, in the trauma room with my colleagues failing to bring you back.</p><p> </p><p>Or you, lying peacefully in your hospital room and just coding out of the blue.</p><p> </p><p>Or you, just succumbing to your injuries, no matter the location.</p><p> </p><p>That is the curse of loving someone, is it not? Knowing that your love will one day end in heartbreak in one way or another, as much as you hope and pray for an end to never come. It eventually will. It always does. Although we want to believe that love is eternal, reality will always show us a different outcome. </p><p> </p><p>Life and love are both so damn fragile.</p><p> </p><p>With a heavy shaky sigh, I shake my head at my own reflection murmuring to it that it has seen better days, before standing up straight and stripping down. To distract myself from those negative thoughts, I try to focus on the music, to lose myself in those Italian lyrics I grew up listening to. </p><p> </p><p>In the shower, in the midst of my own private concert featuring me as the soloist that no one should pay to see, they creep in even then - the negative outcomes and what-ifs. They eventually silence my own voice; I stand under the steaming hot water quietly, staring at the light gray granite tiles of the shower wall until I could no longer contain the stinging in my eyes.</p><p> </p><p>Closing them tightly breaks the metaphorical already crumbling, weak wall. The initial tears are silent as they roll down from the corner of my eyes. Biting down on my lip, I try to keep it as such, but a loud sob escapes and shakes my body. Leaning forward, I allow myself to give in to the proceeding, unstoppable sobs. The tears fall more freely now, an act they have been threatening to do since <em> that </em> morning - a few had managed to flee before this very moment, but nothing like this. Nothing like the body wracking, loud, almost inhuman cries that cause my knees to buckle.</p><p> </p><p>Lowering myself to the shower floor, the water washes over me in the same exact sense as my emotions finally do, allowing myself to fully feel for the first time in what feels like an absolute eternity instead of burying them deep as I had been struggling to do since the beginning of all this.</p><p> </p><p>The stress.</p><p> </p><p>The fear.</p><p> </p><p>The worry.</p><p> </p><p>The anxiety.</p><p> </p><p>The sadness.</p><p> </p><p>The guilt.</p><p> </p><p>I do not know how long I kneel there, watching the water drain. It is long enough for the sobs to eventually come to a halt and for my knees to start hurting. I thought it would feel as if a weight would have been lifted from my shoulders after all this, but it does not. No, now on top of everything, I also feel... just even more tired than before. As much as I do not <em> want </em> to sleep, I really want to get to bed. Pulling myself back up to my feet, I go about with the rest of my shower.</p><p> </p><p>Soon enough, I drag myself out and pause the music on my phone’s playlist. After slipping into a pair of old shorts and a baggy t-shirt to sleep in, I throw my wet hair up into a messy bun and convince myself to maybe not go straight to bed, as tempting as it is. That maybe eating something more than garlic truffle fries and deep fried pickles today is probably a good idea, even if I am not truly hungry. My appetite has been scarce as of late.</p><p> </p><p>Almost as scarce as my fridge, and kitchen, overall. As much as I would like to blame that on the last few days, I know better. This has been the situation for nearly the last week and a half; I should have gone grocery shopping long before now, but I.. just have not been home.</p><p> </p><p>Completely by choice, I was working longer shifts at the hospital, trying to spend as much as my waking hours as possible distracting myself. You see, if I am constantly with patients, delivering babies, doing paperwork, and conducting research, I do not have time to check my phone. I do not have time to be disappointed that the people I love most are not talking to me.</p><p> </p><p>It also means that the only viable source of nutrition - not that it could be called that - was a pint of Talenti gelato. At least it is the pistachio flavor. If my ten year old self could see me now, having <em> gelato </em> for <em> dinner </em> because I am an adult and I <em> am allowed </em> to make that decision for myself, she would be very much ecstatic that she did not have to do it while sneaking behind <em> Papà’s </em> back.</p><p> </p><p>Not that he ever paid too much attention to what was for dinner growing up. He was always a bit too busy with work to notice what I got myself into. Well, usually. There were more than a few instances where I found my way into trouble.</p><p> </p><p>Though, I would argue that trouble normally found me.</p><p> </p><p>Naturally.</p><p> </p><p>I was very much an <em> innocent </em> child growing up.</p><p> </p><p>The lie manages to get a short, dry laugh to escape me.</p><p> </p><p>Though, honestly, the adult me has no room to talk or judge about this choice, for that matter, as she just spent the majority of her shower openly weeping on the floor. She should ignore all the studies and facts about a balanced diet running through her mind - embrace the fact that she, too, deserves to have the god damn gelato for dinner.</p><p> </p><p>The whole pint if she wants to, or whatever happens to be left of it.</p><p> </p><p>The gelato container is not the only thing that I set on the kitchen table. It is quickly accompanied by a spoon (of course), a bottle of red wine and an appropriate glass. Because, honestly, at this point, why not? And could one not argue that a glass of wine was a serving for fruit if you squinted hard enough and tilted your head to the side a little bit, no?</p><p> </p><p>Not that I need to defend my choices to anyone, given this disaster of a week.</p><p> </p><p>After uncorking the bottle, I pour myself a hefty glass, one that will most definitely help me fall asleep tonight. Maybe it will help bypass all those awful nightmares as well. One could hope, at least, but before I could even take a sip of the wine, there is a loud knocking coming from my front door. It is followed by the ringing of the door bell.</p><p> </p><p>I am not expecting anyone. For a moment, I stare at the door, waiting. The knocking grows more insistent. Frowning, I set my untouched wine down on the table next to the melting gelato before going to investigate. Taking a peek through the peephole, I cannot hold back a smile as I open the door to a Doctor Amelia Shepherd on my welcome mat, holding up a way too large box of pizza for two people.</p><p> </p><p>“Baby Daddy said you finally went home and it’s been <em> rough </em> ,” she explains. “So I took it upon myself to come over with greasy, terrible pizza -- also, dammit, DeLuca, it’s <em> unfair </em> that you can still look this <em> good </em> even when you’re worn out.”  </p><p> </p><p>Failing to hide a wide smile, I roll my eyes and look up towards the ceiling, unable to hold back a laugh as Amelia walks past me, mumbling something about ‘us poor mortals’ under her breath. “<em> Grazie, amica mia </em>,” I say genuinely over my shoulder, closing and locking the front door.</p><p> </p><p>Turning, I follow after her to the kitchen where she has already set the pizza down on the table. She points to the ‘dinner’ I laid out for myself. “I’m not here to judge,” she stresses. “But you <em> know </em> that you now have to share the ice-cream because I brought the pizza, right? Those are the rules, I don’t make them -- don’t grab any silverware!” </p><p> </p><p>I approach the table with my hands in the air to convey I would not commit such a heinous act. At least, not again. The first time Amelia showed up on my doorstep with a pizza, she stared at me in horror when I pulled out forks and knives. She asked me what I was doing. I asked back how we’re supposed to eat. She told me to brace myself as she was able to show me the American way. </p><p> </p><p>I retorted that I was going to take her to true, authentic Italian pizza one evening. I still need to upkeep that promise. Due to our scandalous silverware debate, Amelia shot back that she would have to take me to chicken wings and force me to embrace the mess. She also murmured under her breath that even then, I would probably <em> still </em> look like a goddess covered in sauce.</p><p> </p><p>Words cannot express how much I adore Amelia and how grateful I am for our unexpected, but more than welcoming friendship.</p><p> </p><p>“Do you want me to put the wine away..?” I offer, gesturing towards my glass.</p><p> </p><p>She shakes her head, “Nah, it’s okay - you do you and, according to Link, it sounds like you need it anyway.” </p><p> </p><p>“Had I known you were coming with a pizza, I would have gone with a beer - it is more appropriate.” </p><p> </p><p>“You know, one day, I still expect you to take me on a grand food tour of Italy where you scold me for having eaten everything in my life wrong,” she points out. “Except now we’ll have to tot along a baby.” </p><p> </p><p>“How is the little <em> bambino </em> ?” I ask, opening the box to reveal a <em> massive </em> pizza, covered in a variety in veggies. </p><p> </p><p>Amelia points at them, “See, it’s vaguely healthy this time.”</p><p> </p><p>“I.. do not think that is how it works,” I reply, raising my eyebrow at her.</p><p> </p><p>“You were <em> literally </em> about to have a pint of ice-cream for dinner.” </p><p> </p><p>“<em> Gelato </em> ,” I cannot help but correct. “And I <em> thought </em>you said you were not here to judge, Amelia.” </p><p> </p><p>“<em> So </em> ,” Amelia speaks up a tiny bit louder to drown me out as she helps herself to her first slice of the pizza. “The bambino is great. Cute. Doesn’t really like to sleep at night, which.. we <em> really </em> need to improve on because, oh, Mama really misses her sleep - Link also says I can crash here and I’m going to do it with or without your permission, by the way.” </p><p> </p><p>She earns herself another laugh - a belly laugh this time. I pick up a slice of pizza for myself, nodding. “The guest room is yours,” I welcome. “Whenever you need it.”</p><p> </p><p>“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” she says in between bites. “So, spill. Unload. That’s why I’m here.” </p><p> </p><p>The smile vanishes from my face as I stare down at the uneaten slice of pizza in my hands. I sigh heavily at it, suddenly finding it nearly impossible to look up from it. There <em> is </em> a lot on my mind - a lot that I am keeping to myself and I know I really should not. It would only fester and the anxiety would continue to grow worse than what it is now.</p><p> </p><p>And if I could not tell Amelia, who else could I turn to?</p><p> </p><p>“I.. I lied to Maya,” I quietly admit.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Writing the last scene between Carina and Amelia was so. much. fun. I now wanna write a girls’ night out one shot featuring the two of them.</p><p>Just a heads up: future updates may not be as rapid as the last couple were. Turns out that I’m not laid off (yay!), but I need to rethink/redo my entire work life online (always down for learning new skills). So, I’ll update when I can! I have complete intentions of finishing this fic :) &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Chapter 10</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>“Excuse me, come again?”</p>
<p>“I lied to her, Amelia,” Carina repeats herself, a bit clearer for both of their sake, as she drops her slice of pizza back down in the box and picks up the glass ridiculously full of red wine. She doesn't usually have a heavy hand when she pours, but.. sometimes it is more than necessary. Especially when one needs to hear herself admit to lying to their significant other - to put it out in the open, no?</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“Excuse me, come again?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I lied to her, Amelia,” I repeat myself, a bit clearer for both of our sakes, as I drop my slice of pizza back down in the box and pick up the glass ridiculously full of red wine. I do not usually have a heavy hand when I pour, but.. sometimes it is more than necessary. Especially when one needs to hear herself admit to lying to their significant other - to put it out in the open, no?</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, that’s what I thought you said,” Amelia nods, taking another bite of a slice of pizza already half gone. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Tilting my head back with the glass in hand, I quickly down half of the wine. Wincing at my action (whether it be the act of lying or the act of drinking like a teenager again is anyone’s guess), I set down the glass and turn back to Amelia. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Impressive - we could’ve painted the town red in my drinking days, you know,” she comments, tossing her own piece back with the rest of the pie.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t even know why I did it!” I admit, my shoulders rising in tension. “And why would we paint Seattle? And why red?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s an idiomatic express-- you know, what? Nevermind,” Amelia brushes off as she closes and picks up the box. “Put the ice-, ahem, </span>
  <em>
    <span>gelato</span>
  </em>
  <span> away for now, grab you little red bottle friend, and let’s move this pity party over to the couch.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Without a word of protest, mostly because Amelia is already on her way to my living room, I grab the container to put back in the freezer for now. Retrieving the bottle and my half empty glass from the table, I make my way after Amelia to the couch, carefully refilling the glass as I do. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Spill - not the wine, though. That’d be an expensive stain.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>After setting the bottle down on the coffee table next to the relocated box of pizza, I sit on the opposite end of the couch from Amelia, legs tucked under me as I take a small sip from my glass this time. “I don’t know where to begin,” I murmur earnestly.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Wherever you need to,” Amelia replies, tossing the crust back into the box. “That’s why I’m here, whenever I can be.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She is very true to her word, Amelia Shepherd - I will credit her for that. It has been, what, 13 days now..? Although the days seem to sort of blend together at this point, that does seem about right. 13 days ago, I stormed out of your apartment after you shattered my heart into a million pieces. After </span>
  <em>
    <span>I</span>
  </em>
  <span> had spent all day worrying about you.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Barely did I expect a woman who had just given birth not too long ago (and I should know - I was there) to offer to come over let alone offer to sabotage and/or hide a body, if necessary, no questions asked. She called herself my ride or die - another expression that she had to explain to me.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Who would have figured that a slight crush and botched request for a </span>
  <em>
    <span>menage et trois</span>
  </em>
  <span> would turn into this?</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“They do not know what really happened at the fire,” I begin, figuring this was probably the best way to start. “And, uh, she is the captain - she is not expected to just </span>
  <em>
    <span>run</span>
  </em>
  <span> into fires anymore. From my understanding, she oversees the entire operation.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“So, then, what was different this time?” Amelia asks, helping herself to a second slice. “Because that’s how all this happened, right? All these injuries?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes,” I confirm with a nod, following another sip. I was hardly hungry before Amelia’s arrival, but now? My appetite, what little had remained of it, vanished just before this conversation began. I leave the pizza untouched. “From what they were able to gather, there was a child trapped inside-” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“And Firefighter Barbie got her out, right?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Firefighter Barbie </span>
  <em>
    <span>failed</span>
  </em>
  <span> to get her out. I don’t think she was even able to find her in the house because the smoke was so dense,” I correct. Even just vaguely describing the incident is enough to get my heart racing again as anxiety tightens its steel grip around it. Although I know you are safe now, the fact that there was a real chance that this all could have been </span>
  <em>
    <span>very</span>
  </em>
  <span> different eats away at me. “They were both rescued after Maya got trapped inside herself. They do not know how long she was inside for - let alone the child.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Looking over towards Amelia, I spot her nodding along to what I am saying. “Man, if she was in </span>
  <em>
    <span>this</span>
  </em>
  <span> rough of shape, how did the kid fair?” she asks. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>When I hesitate to answer, Amelia narrows her eyebrows. “Shit, what happened to the kid?” she asks again.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Her, uh, her burns and injuries were too severe,” I respond, honestly this time as my voice shakes just a hint. “They were not able to resuscitate her in the ER.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Shit</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Amelia repeats, shaking her head. “God, that’s absolutely horrible - how old are we talking?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>With a small shrug of the shoulders, I guess, “Six, maybe seven years old tops. A child.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, </span>
  <em>
    <span>damn</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” she whispers. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Don’t</span>
  </em>
  <span> look at me right now.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>A caught sight of the tears pooling at the corner of her eyes before turning my attention back to the glass of wine in my hands. I take another swing as I see her waving her hands at her face in my peripheral vision. I am still doing what I am told - I am not </span>
  <em>
    <span>directly</span>
  </em>
  <span> looking.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Freaking hormones are still out of whack,” she grumbles. “Wish my </span>
  <em>
    <span>OB</span>
  </em>
  <span> would’ve mentioned </span>
  <em>
    <span>something</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I did!” I protest into my glass. “You were distracted by a very cute </span>
  <em>
    <span>bambino</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“He’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>so </span>
  </em>
  <span>fucking cute,” she agrees, voice slightly squeeky. “We put him in a panda bear onesie the other day and my heart couldn’t take it - I’m not normally like </span>
  <em>
    <span>this</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Your hormones will even out by six months postpartum,” I remind her.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Excuse me,” Amelia responds. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“It is also when you will have your first postpartum period,” I add.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Please stop being my doctor right now -- and eat your dinner,” Amelia demands, standing up from the couch. “I need some water.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>As she rounds the coffee table and heads back towards the kitchen, I lean forward to set my glass down and pick up my original slice of pizza. The idea of eating, I still cannot stomach - too many knots from built up guilt. I begin to pick the veggies from the cheese. Amelia </span>
  <em>
    <span>did</span>
  </em>
  <span> order the veggies in an attempt to appear healthy, so it truly is the least I could do to appreciate her effort and, well, mushrooms are my favorite. I was not about to pass them up.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Maya asked about her,” I speak up as Amelia returns to the living room, glass of water in hand. “It was one of the first things she asked when she woke up this morning.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Putting all the pieces together, she reclaims her spot opposite of me and leans back against the arm rest, shaking her head as she comes to the realization. “Oh, dear god, Carina, what did you tell her?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“That…” I bite down on my lip for a second as the guilt builds. With a heavy sigh and doing my best to not cover myself in mushroom oil, I bury my face into my hand in a pathetic attempt to hide (or just avoid Amelia’s dumbfound gaze) and force myself to continue. “I told her that she was transferred.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Amelia tries to stifle her gasp and, although I appreciate her for it, she thoroughly fails. “Shit, that’s a </span>
  <em>
    <span>mighty big</span>
  </em>
  <span> transfer, Carina,” she remarks. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I know,” I groan, unwilling to look up, even as I abandon the pizza for the upteenth time. There would be no eating tonight. “I also told the nurses and doctors on her case to not mention it either.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Carina</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I </span>
  <em>
    <span>know</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” I repeat, throwing my head back. Staring up at the ceiling as the back of my head rests against the couch cushions, I shrug my shoulders. “You know, I don't even know </span>
  <em>
    <span>why</span>
  </em>
  <span> I did it. I </span>
  <em>
    <span>panicked</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You panicked?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Sì</span>
  </em>
  <span>, panicked,” I confirm. “I didn’t think she would ask straight away! It was literally, like, the </span>
  <em>
    <span>second</span>
  </em>
  <span> thing she asked, maybe? She </span>
  <em>
    <span>ran</span>
  </em>
  <span> into a </span>
  <em>
    <span>fire</span>
  </em>
  <span> for this child. A burning house! And the injuries she has incurred will take </span>
  <em>
    <span>weeks</span>
  </em>
  <span>, maybe </span>
  <em>
    <span>months</span>
  </em>
  <span> to heal. She had been unconscious for </span>
  <em>
    <span>three</span>
  </em>
  <span> days-”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“So imagine waking up and finding out the kid’s passed,” Amelia interjects, speaking softly.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Closing my eyes to stop the return to the pesky stinging sensation that would soon summon tears and with another heavy sigh, I lay down on the couch and hug one of the throw pillows tightly against my chest. That </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> what I have been imagining, from the moment I heard that the little girl did not make it the evening after the fire: how were you going to take the news after everything you have gone through? I know you, Maya - or rather, I think that I do. You would shut down. You would pull away. You would blame yourself. And you would grow distant. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>And I was not ready for you to be so distant again.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I should not have lied to you, Maya, that much I know to be true, but..</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>But.. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>But, maybe I should stop with the excuses.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I should not have lied to you. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Punto</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Period.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Esatto</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” I murmur under my breath, almost into the throw pillow itself. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Sono una persona terribile</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The cushion my head rests upon suddenly slumps. When I open my eyes, I find Amelia lying with me. She props herself up with her elbow. “You are </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> a terrible person,” she stresses as she takes a stab at the Italian while staring down at me as I furiously blink away forming tears. “Far from it - you’re good with good intentions, alright? That’s gonna be some rough news to hear, no matter when it breaks. It’s.. just going to be a little bit harder now, but you were just trying to protect your… your girlfriend.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You hesitate with that word,” I point out.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You have, too, for nearly two weeks,” Amelia immediately shoots back.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s not…” I begin, to also begin to try to defend myself, but then my voice trails off. How can I even begin to disagree with her? She is absolutely right. The word that was once so common and filled with such love.. it feels nearly completely foreign now. I have a hard time giving it a voice.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>As if I need to relearn to say it all over again.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Girlfriend.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>My</span>
  </em>
  <span> girlfriend.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s not…? What, that’s not true?” she repeats. “Listen, can I be a little frank with you, Carina?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You mean you </span>
  <em>
    <span>have not</span>
  </em>
  <span> been until now?” I remark, turning my head to the side to better glare slightly. In all our conversations, I have never known Amelia to ever hold back.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“A couple weeks ago, you were ready to smash every single one of your plates out of pure, unadulterated anger because of.. the thing that shall not be spoken of,” she points out. “And I’m pretty sure you accidentally taught me every single Italian curse word that evening, too.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I did </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” I protest.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Vaffanculo</span>
  </em>
  <span>, you pretty much did,” Amelia counters. “And I have the Google translate history to prove it.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Merda</span>
  </em>
  <span>, yeah, okay, so maybe I did.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Then not too long after that, you express your love for her and take her back-” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s not </span>
  <em>
    <span>exactly</span>
  </em>
  <span> how it happened-”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m summarizing - I know she came to you,” she explains. “And then up until this incident, there’s been virtually no contact between you two. Now, you’ve just spent </span>
  <em>
    <span>three</span>
  </em>
  <span> days at her bedside. Literally.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Frowning, I furrow my brow as I question, “What are you getting at, Amelia?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Been a bit of a rollercoaster, hasn’t it?” she follows up.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You don’t need to remind me - I </span>
  <em>
    <span>am</span>
  </em>
  <span> the one riding it-” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“How are you doing, Carina?” she interrupts. “Like, truly, not just with this, but with </span>
  <em>
    <span>all</span>
  </em>
  <span> of it - how are you? Are you okay?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Her question, one so simple that has gone unasked in all this, resonantes. It echoes. Repeats over and over again in my mind. All my focus and attention has been on you that I’ve essentially ignored everything else, including myself.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Especially</span>
  </em>
  <span> myself.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>How am I doing?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I had my heart broken, shattered into what felt like a thousand pieces that would never be put together again, by the two people in my life I love the most and a part of me believes that maybe if I had told them both more often, or even sooner, just how much I loved them - that my actions and intentions, I swear were out of genuine love for them, that we would not be where we all are now. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Maya, you pushed me away when I tried to be supportive as you came to terms with your abusive father - and that is also my fault. I pushed too hard instead of just </span>
  <em>
    <span>listening</span>
  </em>
  <span> and </span>
  <em>
    <span>actually</span>
  </em>
  <span> being supportive.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>And with Andrea.. as soon as he got his official diagnosis, he shut down and shut me out - not after asking me rather snidely if I was going to gloat about everything. I had been right, after all, about him and </span>
  <em>
    <span>Papà.</span>
  </em>
  <span> I tried to explain it was </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> about being right - it was about his </span>
  <em>
    <span>well being</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He did not want to hear it, not from me.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It was good intentions.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>All of it, I swear.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>How are you?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Even before all this, before this incident, we struggled to talk to each other, but we were on the same page: we love each other. We love each other, but we are both unsure how to move forward. I do not know how we are going to do this. I do not know how I am going to help take care of you during all this without feeling constantly on the verge of messing something up again. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>But, I do know, however, that we said that we would work through this somehow - that we would get through these new obstacles together.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>You told me earlier today that talking terrifies you. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>You know what? If I am being completely honest: me too, Maya. I am scared, too.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I am scared how you will react when I tell you the truth. I am scared that you will push me away again. I am scared that my good intentions are never truly good, it seems.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Are you okay?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sitting up, I continue to hug the throw pillow, but now I bury my face into it and keep my back to Amelia. I feel the couch shift slightly, so I can only assume that she is no longer laying down either. Desperately, I try to swallow the growing lump in my throat. Honestly, I thought I had reached the point where I could no longer cry, not after that shower, anyway. When I feel Amelia place a gentle hand against my back and start to message small, smooth circles in an attempt to sooth and calm me, my shoulders automatically grow tense.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>This is going to be a long night, Amelia, and I am sorry for that, but as you said: ride or die, no? Even in the middle of this mess?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <span>“No,” I finally reply in a voice struggling to register just above a whisper as I admit an answer I have been keeping silent until now. “I am </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> okay.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you for the patience as I adjust to a new schedule and, as always, thank you for taking the time to read these ramblings. :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Chapter 11</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Carina immediately stops talking and stares, biting back a concerned frown. That’s all it is: concern. Worry. Maya knows where she's coming from. It’s all good intentions. She always has good intentions. Carina's looking out for her; she wants what’s best and they both know that Maya has a track record of fucking up what’s best for herself - at the drop of a hat, too. It’s a tragic talent, really.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>When you arrive at the hospital the following afternoon - the fourth day after the incident, you somehow look more exhausted than when you left yesterday evening. Even your usual </span>
  <em>
    <span>buon giorno</span>
  </em>
  <span> sounds drained. Despite you refusing to tell me otherwise even if I ask, this is taking a toll on you. I can tell. I don’t want it to; believe you me, I didn’t want any of this.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>This is not the outcome of the house fire I foresaw when I ran inside against better judgement.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you okay?” I ask as you grab my chart from the foot of the bed and take a seat at my side.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Giving the chart a quick glance over, you nod in my general direction and flip the page. “How are </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> feeling?” you respond, trying to pivot the conversation away from yourself. “How did you sleep? Alright?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“For the most part,” I answer honestly. “Can’t really.. roll around much, which is frustrating and painful. Had a couple of sore spots that bothered me every now and again. Nurses here are saints - very helpful.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, they’re really great,” you murmur in agreement, still lost in the chart.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Frowning slightly, I tilt my head to the side as I watch you. You’re distracted. “And, uh, this morning, I was visited by the entire Seahawks team,” I continue, in order to confirm my theory.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Hmm,” you hum in feign acknowledgement.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>My shoulders fall in the confirmation received. You are </span>
  <em>
    <span>definitely</span>
  </em>
  <span> not paying attention and upon closer inspection, I can see that the bags under your eyes are heavier than yesterday. Your eyes are also a bit puffy, too. You’ve been crying.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Suddenly, my chest feels unbearably heavy.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Carina,” I say, a bit louder than intended, but it grabs your attention. You look up, slightly startled. I immediately apologize, but you flash a small, reassuring smile and shake your head.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“No, it’s okay - my fault anyway, I am not paying attention,” you insist, putting the chart back where it belongs and then turning all your attention on me. “I wanted.. I just wanted to make sure that discharging you is the right course of action.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You have reservations?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>You wrinkle your nose slightly and now I know that whatever you’re about to say, you probably mean the opposite. You’re probably about to hide something. “Not really-” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re worried,” I interrupt. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course I’m worried,” you confirm, looking down at your phone to send off a quick message. “I just want to make sure that you are getting the best care - I am asking Dr. Altman to add a prescription for an antihistamine. We can pick it up on our way out, if she agrees.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“An antihistamine..?” I repeat, eyebrows furrowing. “I’m.. not allergic to anything, though. At least, not that I know of, anyway.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Putting your phone in your pant pocket, you nod, “I know.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Then…?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Although their primary use is to treat allergic reactions, they have also been proven to treat anxiety, short term - for emergency situations,” you explain. “They have a calming effect on the brain-” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Shaking my head in confusion, I ask, “Why would I need them? I don’t have-” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Maya, you had a panic attack - you </span>
  <em>
    <span>have</span>
  </em>
  <span> panic attacks,” you insist. I, on the other hand, want to counter that I don’t, but we both know exactly what you’re talking about: the vacation we took together, us in the hotel room. It’s not a moment I’m proud of - a moment of weakness. Helplessness. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>You continue, “and I.. I just want to make sure that you’re able to take care of them if I’m not around again.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“If.. you’re not.. around,” I repeat, slowly, not entirely understanding where all this is coming from. As much as I want to push and ask what you exactly mean, I don’t. I already consider myself lucky that you’re still here when you obviously don’t need to be. You don’t need to be taking all this on, not after what I did to you. So instead of pushing, I just nod in agreement. “No, yeah, that.. that’s probably for the best, I guess.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>A lingering silence emerges; I feel uncomfortable.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I don’t like it.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Carina,” I speak up before asking again now that there are no distractions between the two of us. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Are</span>
  </em>
  <span> you okay..?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Propping your elbow against the armrest, you lean towards the side of the chair and rest the side of your face against your fist as you flash me a small smile. Your dark eyes glisten as you consider the question before giving me a shrug of your shoulders. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Honestly..?” you say quietly.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Honestly..” I reply, just as silent, almost afraid to speak any louder.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t know.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>As quiet as you utter the words, I hear them echo with heaviness, regardless, and I know that’s a heaviness that I’ve caused, even if you won’t admit it, or maybe you would? Who knows? I don’t want to ask. I’m too afraid to hear </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> answer. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s been.. a long.. however long this has been,” you add, seeing me grow tense. “A lot happened. A lot of emotions, </span>
  <em>
    <span>bella</span>
  </em>
  <span>. A lot of things to process.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The words ‘I’m sorry’ leave me before I could stop myself - not that I should stop myself. We wouldn’t be in all of this, if not for me. That’s painfully obvious and I’m not just talking about here in the hospital, either. Sitting up a bit straighter, you reach out and take my hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. It’s the most affection you’ll show me, I’ve noticed over the last day. Maybe I am just a complete glutton for punishment, projecting my overwhelming sense of self deprecation onto you, but I can even manage to convince myself that the small action feels strenuous and tedious.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Shaking your head, you use your free hand to quickly wipe away at the corner of your eyes. Before you could tell me that I don’t need to apologize, I cut you off, “But I do - for a lot of things, too.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Maya,” you murmur gently.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You don’t have to do this, you know,” I stress. “Vic still needs a place to live, I think. And I think I can barter free rent for caregiving until I’m back on my feet-” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey, I said I was going to help take care of you and that is </span>
  <em>
    <span>exactly</span>
  </em>
  <span> what I plan on doing,” you promise with another soft squeeze as you pull our intertwined hands to your chest. “I mean, you have an </span>
  <em>
    <span>actual</span>
  </em>
  <span> doctor at your disposal - how incredibly fortunate is that?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You know, when I said I wanted to play doctor with you, this is </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> what I had in mind,” I remark, the corner of my lips tugging into a small smirk.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>As you laugh, I swear I could feel all my worries melt away and dissipate for a split second.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, me neither,” you agree, still stifling a giggle. “This version of the game does not feel as fun.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Maybe we could try to return it for a refund - get the correct one this time,” I suggest.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Hmm, wouldn’t that be useful?” you hum, staring down at our hands that you place on your lap. “Unfortunately, and keeping with our little gaming analogy, I learned from a pretty young age that you need to play the hand that you have been dealt.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“No matter how shitty and self inflicting that hand is.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>At first, you shake your head at me. “No, actually,” you backtrack slightly. “Shitty, yes, I will give you that. This is not all roses and flowers.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Roses </span>
  <em>
    <span>and </span>
  </em>
  <span>flowers?” I repeat.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Non è tutto rose </span>
  </em>
  <span>e fiori</span>
  <em>
    <span>, no?</span>
  </em>
  <span>” you translate.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I think we just say roses,” I point out.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>You question, “why only roses when you can also have all the flowers?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Isn’t the point that one </span>
  <em>
    <span>doesn’t</span>
  </em>
  <span> have flowers?” I counter.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s a poor expression,” you conclude. “Especially since you don’t even </span>
  <em>
    <span>like</span>
  </em>
  <span> flowers to begin with. So, rather, we should say it’s not all sunshine-” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“We live in Seattle, you know,” I cut you off. “It’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>literally</span>
  </em>
  <span> not all sunshine-” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you want to know how you say ‘smartass’ in Italian?” you follow up without missing a beat.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Immediately failing to contain my laughter, I pull my hand away from you and try to brace my ribs to no avail, really. It was a good effort to try to lessen the pain - didn’t work at all, turns out, but, whatever. It’s worth it. As I wince through the laughing, I can hear you furiously apologizing, repeatedly, in both languages. A cycle of genuine </span>
  <em>
    <span>mi dispiace</span>
  </em>
  <span>’s and I’m sorry’s.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s okay,” I wheeze once I contain myself a tiny bit. “Are you going to tell me or what?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Now sitting on the edge of the seat, you shake your head slowly with a sheepish smile, “I cannot - too mean.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Man, how long does it take for ribs to heal?” I murmur, still wincing a tiny bit as I try to control my breathing.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The face you make tells me the answer - too long. I counter with a slight pout and you shake your head quickly back and forth, not wanting to reveal what would surely dishearten me (I am also certain that I </span>
  <em>
    <span>have</span>
  </em>
  <span> been told this information, but.. the last couple of days have been more than a little fuzzy). I further the pout and my shoulders slump.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Six weeks, usually,” you give in.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Six weeks</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” I gasp to the best of my ability.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“But!” you immediately interject. “The pain should </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> last that long and you’ll start breathing therapy in a couple weeks to help build up lung strength again - otherwise you risk developing pneumonia.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I’m still mentally stuck on the </span>
  <em>
    <span>six</span>
  </em>
  <span> weeks. I mean, that’s until you further point out that the leg will take eight weeks plus therapy. The burn shouldn’t be too bad to handle - couple weeks, tops. And apparently there’s nothing to do with my literal fractured skull due to how it actually fractured (I guess one could be so lucky…?). Though there may be some lingering effects of the concussion I endured.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It is a lot to take in. Maybe it </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> actually fortunate to have an actual doctor at my side through this.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“How do you remember all of this stuff?” I ask, although still mentally reeling at the idea of not being able to do much for </span>
  <em>
    <span>eight</span>
  </em>
  <span> weeks now. “Are all you doctors walking medical textbooks or something?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>You give me a slight shrug of your shoulders before admitting, “No, not really. Once you figure out your speciality, you kind of hyper focus on that one field alone, but, ah.. when I have not been really able to sleep the last few days, I have been looking over procedures, treatments, and aftercare. Good review, a lot of things I have not really seen since medical school.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Refusing to ask the question because you would just side step it anyway, like you did as you entered the room, I state, “You didn’t sleep last night.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Backed into the proverbial corner, it takes you a moment to give in and slightly nod in confirmation. “When she was still alive, my </span>
  <em>
    <span>mamma</span>
  </em>
  <span> always said that I had an overactive imagination, which is.. </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>always a good thing, I suppose,” you say. “And, well, the nightmares have been particularly vivid.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Yeah, nightmares, you don’t have to tell me about those. More than once - almost consistently - throughout the night last night, I kept seeing, well, no.. I guess it wasn’t really </span>
  <em>
    <span>seeing</span>
  </em>
  <span>, per se. Everything was dark from a thick smoke, but I could feel the searing heat from a fire and hear the roar and sharp cackling of its flames. And I couldn’t move, not a single inch of my body - pinned to a wall by an invisible force.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Although the fire was </span>
  <em>
    <span>loud</span>
  </em>
  <span>, there was one thing I could hear through it so freaking clearly: the panicked, disembodied cry of a child that I couldn’t reach, not even with my voice that was drowned out by the cracks of embers and stifled by smoke.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>And I know I should’ve reassured that you were okay; I should’ve asked about </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>But I just couldn’t stop myself.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I can still hear that almost intangible cry.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Did you ever check in on that little girl?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Before you can answer, we are interrupted by a knock and the hospital room door swinging open. As a favor to you and with the prescription that you requested that you tuck away in your purse, Dr. Altman takes care of discharging me. She reminds you that you can reach out with questions or concerns at any time for whatever reason. You thank her profusely and tell her to give kisses to the little </span>
  <em>
    <span>bambina</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The gratitude for no longer being in the hospital does not last long. No, reality hits me when you pull up to my apartment and you come around to the passenger side door with a wheelchair you got out of the trunk. Crutches wouldn’t do - too many injuries.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>This is going to be a long recovery.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>This is the part of the job that no one talks about. It’s the unspoken part of the job no one wants to happen, but it does. Happen. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>You just never think it’s going to happen to you, specifically.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Some of us are just </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> unfortunate.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>When we get inside, you help me to the couch and I realize that you have been doing a hell of a lot more than reading and reviewing medical information. The place is clean and the furniture slightly rearranged to help me move about. The pantry and fridge are stocked - and who knows what else that I can’t spot, or notice, at the moment.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I know you don’t want me saying it. You’ve made that very clear, so I’ll keep it to myself: I don’t deserve you.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Setting your purse and the prescription bag on the coffee table, you collapse, carefully at that, onto the couch, next to me. Heavy sigh, you sink into the cushions and toss your head back as you allow yourself to close your eyes - to finally rest for a few moments.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I brought over some leftover veggie pizza from last night,” you inform, folding your arms over your chest as you sink further into the couch. “We don’t have to worry about cooking today at least.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>You</span>
  </em>
  <span> ordered a veggie pizza?” I ask, raising an eyebrow at you. It goes unnoticed. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Shaking your head, you clarify, “Amelia did, but I did not have much of an appetite and it should not go to waste. She came over last night to keep me company.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Hmm - glad you weren’t alone,” I comment, remembering your remark about your own nightmares. At least you didn’t have to wake up to an empty house on top of that.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Honestly,” you murmur, eyes still close. “At the moment, six to eight weeks on this couch sounds rather divine, no?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Six to eight weeks of watching those terrible horror movies with me,” I amend.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Those are </span>
  <em>
    <span>horrible</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” you groan as you pout. “Why would you want to trap me in my own personal level of the </span>
  <em>
    <span>inferno</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I mean, six to eight weeks on the couch </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> pretty much my own - fair is fair, you know,” I tease.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>All of a sudden, you are sitting up straighter, wide awake. You shift slightly, turning towards me. “As true as that probably is,” you begin. “You </span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span> need to follow your treatment instructions to the letter, Maya - especially for your leg.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I know,” I try to reassure.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“No, </span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” you stress. “If you try to do too much too soon, you can cause permanent damage and-” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Carina</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>You immediately stop talking and you stare, biting back a concerned frown. That’s all it is: concern. Worry. I know where you’re coming from. It’s all good intentions. You always have good intentions. You’re looking out for me; you want what’s best and we both know I have a track record of fucking up what’s best for me - at the drop of a hat, too. It’s a tragic talent, really.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I know,” I repeat, a bit more gently this time. “I promise to follow doctor’s orders, </span>
  <em>
    <span>especially</span>
  </em>
  <span> yours.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>That’s exactly what you need to hear in order to ease back into the cushions. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You know, if watching these bad movies for nearly two months helps you get better, I’ll do it,” you reassure. “Call it my noble sacrifice, if you will.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Incredibly</span>
  </em>
  <span> noble of you - such an honor,” I grin as you chuckle lightly. A moment passes before I finally return to the question that’s followed me from the hospital room. “So, how’s the little girl? You got that update, right?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Your whole demeanor changes and you look away from me - you look anywhere </span>
  <em>
    <span>but</span>
  </em>
  <span> at me. Not only are you sitting up once again, but you’re also so rigid and tense. Uncomfortable. You don’t have to say a damn word; your silence is practically screaming it.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“She didn’t make it, did she?” I ask, struggling to keep speaking any louder than a frayed whisper.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>As you shake her head, my stomach drops.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I am sorry, Maya,” you say softly.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>With my throat now unbearably dry, I somehow manage to choke out, “When?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Maya-”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>When</span>
  </em>
  <span>? Last night?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Slowly, and with some hesitation, you shake your head. Your breathing is shaky as you fail to hide your frown while blinking a bit furiously. “No, she..Maya, I’m really sorry, but,” you struggle as you repeat and force yourself to keep your eyes on me. “She passed soon after you were brought in.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Soon after you were brought in.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>She passed.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I’m really sorry.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Plagued by the nightmare, the crying rings loudly in my ears. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Momentarily deafening.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>You’re a firefighter, please don’t let my friend die!</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>My blood runs cold - hell, my whole body does. The whole fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>room</span>
  </em>
  <span> does. Every single one of my muscles tense painfully tight as the realization dawns on me. Now, I’m the one shaking my head at you. You reach my hand; I immediately pull away.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You said,” I began.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I know what I said, but please listen-” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You said she was transferred to another hospital,” I speak louder, drowning you out.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I never said to another hospital,” you pathetically try to defend yourself.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You lied to me.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“With your condition, I didn’t know how much stress you could-”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You </span>
  <em>
    <span>lied</span>
  </em>
  <span> to me,” I repeat.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Can you </span>
  <em>
    <span>please</span>
  </em>
  <span> just let me explain?” you beg. I can hear the frustration in your voice - it’s earned that rightful place, that much is true. Anyone could see that I’m not letting you get a word in edgewise and if I’d learn anything over the last couple of weeks, you’d think it’d be to actually take a figurative step back, try to remain calm, don’t let my raw emotions get the better of me, don’t shut down, and just let us </span>
  <em>
    <span>talk</span>
  </em>
  <span> like actual adults.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>The steps are all laid out before me.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Unfortunately, I am a slow learner.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>And a creature of habit.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“What’s there to </span>
  <em>
    <span>explain</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” I snap as I try to pull myself to the edge of the couch, trying not to wince. I refuse to. That’s weakness. I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> showing any god damn weakness. I’m not giving into it. You reach for me again. Again, I pull away, this time with a grimace.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Stop</span>
  </em>
  <span> moving! What did I just </span>
  <em>
    <span>warn</span>
  </em>
  <span> you about?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Stop</span>
  </em>
  <span> touching me,” I counter, childishly.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>We’re at a stand still. Neither one of us moves, or says a word, for what feels like an eternity. I can feel you staring at me; I can’t bring myself to look back. I don’t trust myself either. Instead, I stare forward toward the fireplace.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Eyes forward.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Eyes always fucking forward.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>You’re the one to give in. “I can’t do this. I'm tired and I tried,” you murmur, barely audible. I feel the couch shift. You stand and grab your purse. You cross my line of sight, in front of the coffee table. We don’t make eye contact. At this moment, I’m convinced we both refuse.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re gonna run off because I physically can’t?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Bishop. Learn to hold your god damn tongue. Stop picking fights. Not that it wasn’t so much about fights, but having the last word instead, no matter how much it hurt. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“At least </span>
  <em>
    <span>I</span>
  </em>
  <span> won’t go running off with Jack,” you snide.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>And it cuts </span>
  <em>
    <span>deep</span>
  </em>
  <span>, allowing a white hot anger to flow. Before I am able to stop myself (though I’m not sure if I actually could), my stupidity runs free. “No, but Amelia’s looking mighty fine, I bet.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Your footsteps come to an abrupt stop behind me; I don’t dare turn around. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“No, Maya. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Non sono come te</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” you state, voice ice cold.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Y’know, not all of us speak Italian-” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>As you make your way toward the front door, you quickly translate, “I’m not like you.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I made this chapter slightly longer than the previous ones (mostly because.. it sort got away from me). I don't know if that's necessarily.. a good thing.</p>
<p>But as always, thanks for reading/the kudos/the comments/the feedback!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Chapter 12</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The ringing in Maya's ears, facilitated by sheer anger, drowns out the ambient noises of an apartment that wasn’t destined to be empty - an apartment bearing leftover memorabilia of Carina's presence. From Maya's spot on the couch where Carina left her, she can spot three things. Three things that tell her this is not how you thought this grand homecoming would play out.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The ringing in my ears, facilitated by sheer anger, drowns out the ambient noises of an apartment that wasn’t destined to be empty - an apartment bearing leftover memorabilia of your presence. From my spot on the couch where you left me, I can spot three things. Three things that tell me this is not how you thought this grand homecoming would play out.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The aroma of brewed espresso coffee still lingers in the air, wafting in from the open kitchen. Your bialetti coffee maker is still on the stove, probably abandoned there from your escapades this morning. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Every time you spend the night, you bring it, swearing that the next time you will buy one specifically for my apartment. You never did, always faulting a suddenly hectic work day or a generally way too busy schedule - very often followed by a mini rant about how Americans, for the most part, need to learn to take time for themselves and relax. Take more vacations. Don’t work such long hours.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>On the furthest edge of the coffee table from me are a small pile of novels bearing titles I can’t make out even if I tried. They’re yours; they’re in Italian. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They’re your escape from a world you struggle to call your own. You’ve explained it to me once, that no matter how much you’ve studied it and no matter how long you’ve been in the States, speaking in a foreign language nearly all day and for nearly all week is exhausting and draining. At the end of the day, a little escape into a familiar linguistic landscape is that small slice of a haven you seek. From the moment, you told me, I hunted down every streaming show dubbed in Italian - you told me it was a sweet gesture and I didn’t have to (that and dubs were usually terrible). You introduced me to some of your favorite Italian movies, though.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The last thing I spot is on the stand against the opposite side of the couch - your usually spot that you decorated with a vase of colorful flowers. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Flowers make you so goddamn happy; they give you such a sense of comfort. You said your walk from your Catholic school to your job at the cafe had a flower shop enroute and the florist would nearly always give you a carnation on your way passed - a small gesture that never failed to make you smile. You tried to get yourself some at least every couple of weeks, then I started to as well. It’s something I don’t understand - they’re something else you gotta think about and take care of and they just ultimately.. die, but they make you smile. That was reason enough.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Three little things. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That’s what they were, really.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Little things.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Little reminders of you who stormed out of the apartment only moments ago.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And they make me </span>
  <em>
    <span>angry</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So damn angry - these pieces of a life that could’ve been if I just </span>
  <em>
    <span>didn’t</span>
  </em>
  <span> keep fucking things up.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>In another world, one where I’m able to not immediately bark the first intrusive offensive thought that comes to mind, we would be having ourselves a lazy weekend. You’d be waking up late after refusing to join me on my morning run, but would be more than willing to jump into my morning shower once back home.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And when we would go through all the hot water - and we </span>
  <em>
    <span>would,</span>
  </em>
  <span> knowing our antics - I would then make us breakfast. You would take care of the coffee, considering the one time I dared use your bialetti macchine, I managed to burn the coffee and you immediately knew how it happened, too: I stepped away for barely a minute.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Too temperamental of a process, especially when instant coffee is a thing that exists, though I’d never have the gall to tell you such.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>With the perfect, second cup of morning coffee, we would then lounge on the couch, just after breakfast - the remains of which would be abandoned in the sink to be addressed later. You would be lost in your books, glancing up every now and again at whatever would be streaming on the television. And then, we would spend a ridiculous amount of time just curled up on the couch, where each end stand would proudly display whatever batch of flowers you would’ve picked out that week. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s all here on full display, staring me down - evidence of a life we could be living. It’s a life that had once been achievable and well within our reach before…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Before all this happened.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Before my mom’s out of the blue visit.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Before my dad revealed his actual true colors.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Before my red hot anger filled decision to sleep with Jack.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Before my questionable heroic act of disappearing into the black smoke of an uncontrolled fire.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>An uncontrolled fire that I can’t remember entering, but I’m not surprised that I did what I did (the job is all about helping those in danger) - even the moments before are vague, blurry, and hard to put together.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>One of the doctors told me that this was normal after a brain trauma - that there would be holes in my memory, a blank slate, even. I shouldn’t expect to gain those memories back; it was fairly common for them to remain that way: gone. Whereas I’m sure I was told out of comfort (I didn’t mention the nightmares), I couldn’t help but find myself entirely annoyed at the situation.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Because I want answers. I want a clear narrative. I want to know what happened that day. Everything is clear from that morning: me struggling to send you that text, Jack getting on my case, and the station getting the call. Then it becomes fuzzy from the moment we arrived on the scene. Then it all becomes pieces.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A young boy ran up to me.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His friend was trapped, unable to escape.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The team was searching in the </span>
  <em>
    <span>wrong</span>
  </em>
  <span> house.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then.. </span>
  <em>
    <span>your </span>
  </em>
  <span>name? I don’t understand.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And, against better judgement and against what every single protocol I learned and knew I should follow, I ran inside. By myself, with no backup. I don’t know why, either. I can’t remember. There’s a reason, there has to be, but why did I go in alone?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Even with the pieces that I did have, one can put together a mishaped, incomplete yet obvious answer: I was trying to do my job. I was trying to </span>
  <em>
    <span>save</span>
  </em>
  <span> that kid.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She was brought in right behind you.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That little girl.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She was transferred.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You lied, point blank. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You </span>
  <em>
    <span>fucking</span>
  </em>
  <span> lied, right to my face. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And so easily at that, too. Practiced.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The ringing in my ears is replaced by the loud, fast beating of my own heart. Just when I think the anger is starting to subside a bit, it comes flooding back with such a powerful, suffocating force.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You let me believe that she was </span>
  <em>
    <span>okay</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You let me believe that enduring all </span>
  <em>
    <span>this</span>
  </em>
  <span> was for </span>
  <em>
    <span>something</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You let me believe that this daunting recovery wouldn’t be for </span>
  <em>
    <span>nothing</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That every </span>
  <em>
    <span>damn</span>
  </em>
  <span> injury had at least had a </span>
  <em>
    <span>purpose </span>
  </em>
  <span>- that there was at least a young girl still here who would play another game of hide and seek with her next door neighbor. That a family would not have to endure the death of their child. That they would be able to see this little girl grow up and live her life - do great things, too.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And then I could have easily believed that </span>
  <em>
    <span>all</span>
  </em>
  <span> of this would have been </span>
  <em>
    <span>worth</span>
  </em>
  <span> something -</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The front door unlocks and the sound of it unlatching causes my heart to leap into my throat. Overcome by pure panic, I desperately try to hoist myself up onto my good leg, but it’s too much of an effort. I immediately collapse back onto the couch, the majority of my body now protesting in a new wave of pain as it reminds me that I cannot do anything myself.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And although I can’t do much of anything for myself right now and I begrudgingly know that I need help, I also can’t handle the idea of facing you right now either. I’ll say something I will regret, something that I can’t take back - though, truthfully, I think I already have.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Leave</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Carina,” I project when I hear the front door close again and a shuffling of feet from the hallway.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, she just did.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Honestly, if I were her, I wouldn’t have even waited, either.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>My eyes narrow at the two different, yet </span>
  <em>
    <span>very</span>
  </em>
  <span> familiar voices emitting from the hallway - neither of them expected. Neither of them yours. I can’t tell if I’m momentarily disappointed or relieved and before I can begin to process, there is a sudden weight shift on the couch and I wince. Turning to my left, in what is usually your spot, I find Vic instead, who I guess vaulted herself over the back of the couch. She’s staring me down, shaking her head slowly back and forth. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She doesn’t have to say a word.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And she doesn’t. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Why are you like this?” I turn to my right, to the second voice. Andy is standing adjacent to the couch, her arms folded over her chest as she stares me down as well.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What Andy </span>
  <em>
    <span>means</span>
  </em>
  <span> to say is that we’re glad you’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>alive,</span>
  </em>
  <span> you’re awake, and that you’re out of the hospital, Maya,” Vic corrects with a glare before turning back to me. “But, seriously, why </span>
  <em>
    <span>are</span>
  </em>
  <span> you like this?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Ignoring the both of them, I press, “What do you mean just left? Why are you two here?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Andy leans against the armrest of the armchair, “Carina texted me-” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Your girlfriend needed back up,” Vic finishes. “We’re back up. Well, no, Andy’s technically back up. I’m just.. crashing in her spare bedroom at the moment.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The more they talk, the more questions I have. Also, the more they talk, the more the pounding in my head grows - the beginning of another migraine. I had one yesterday as well. It’s the head trauma, they told me at the hospital. I may have a few bouts, but it shouldn’t be concerning.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And with the number of growing questions I had, I focus on one little detail.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know if the term ‘girlfriend’ still applies,” I admit in a mumble under my breath. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, neither does she,” Andy comments. “But she still cares enough to make sure at least </span>
  <em>
    <span>someone</span>
  </em>
  <span> is around to help-” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t need help,” I stubbornly insist as Andy’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>neither does she</span>
  </em>
  <span> repeats in my mind. My headache is growing worse.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“See, we’d believe that if literally half of you wasn’t in a cast,” Vic quickly points out as she stands up and makes her way towards the kitchen. “Or if we didn’t see what you looked like </span>
  <em>
    <span>before</span>
  </em>
  <span> they put you back together again.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Now’s not the time to play the tough Fire Captain, Maya,” Andy says. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Still a role that you want though, isn’t it?” I grumble before I can stop myself.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s a short dry laugh. I grind my teeth. It </span>
  <em>
    <span>annoys</span>
  </em>
  <span> me. Andy shakes her head at me, </span>
  <em>
    <span>again</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and this time, it’s accompanied by a slight smirk. “Carina may not be used to this, but we, fortunately, are.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Fortunately</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” Vic repeats from the kitchen she’s rummaging in.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You can lash out all you want, Maya,” Andy continues. “Some of it, I even merit, I’ll give you that, but we’re not leaving. Not that easily, anyway.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Because we love you,” Vic adds, returning to the living room stare down with a bag of Lindor’s chocolate - Stracciatella, I gather, from the coloring of the bag. One of my favorites, though I didn’t think I had any left in my stash. She hands a truffle to each of us, even helps to begin to unwrap mine. I don’t eat it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Where did you find that?” I ask.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You kidding me? You have a whole variety in the cupboard - I’m taking a bag as a fee,” Vic replies matter of factly, gesturing over her shoulder towards the kitchen before returning next to me on the couch.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I stare down at the white chocolate truffle still vaguely wrapped in the palm of my hand, frowning. “Carina,” I murmur.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>She</span>
  </em>
  <span> loves you, too,” Andy states.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Can she be my girlfriend next?” Vic asks. My head immediately snaps up and I quickly turn towards her. The sudden motion makes me sick, but it doesn’t keep me from glaring. She’s helping herself to another piece of chocolate. She points directly at me. “And </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> reaction says you still love her also.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“She lied to me,” I keep murmuring, turning my attention back to the truffle and rolling it around between my fingers. “About..” my voice trails off. I don’t want to say it. It’d feel too real. I don’t want to accept it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Carefully, Andy sits down directly in front of me, on the edge of the coffee table. “It sucks, Maya,” she begins, slowly, as if trying to precisely choose her words. Tip toeing - we were once as close as two friends could get and now we’re reduced to tip toeing around each other. Of course we have, considering how we’ve been treating each other for the last few months.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Regardless, she still showed up for me.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That means something, right?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“The whole situation sucks,” Vic points out.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes, thank you, Vic,” Andy replies before continuing. “It sucks when we aren’t able to help those who need us most, especially when the absolute worst case scenario happens as a result. It makes us feel that we aren’t.. adequate for the job. That we have no business being here-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“How is this supposed to-” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“The reality is: we are not going to be able to save everyone,” Andy interrupts. “And it’s a concept that we all struggle with. It’s a reality we don’t want to accept.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Until we gotta and it </span>
  <em>
    <span>sucks</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Vic remarks. “And it sucks enough when you’re dealing with </span>
  <em>
    <span>one</span>
  </em>
  <span> shitty outcome, but this time? We also almost lost our captain-” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You wouldn’t have lost me.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“How can you be so certain?” Vic asks.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Because I trust my team,” I answer. “I trust you all with my life, as much as that hasn’t seemed rather evident since the promotion. I, however, wasn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>good</span>
  </em>
  <span> enough and </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> shouldn’t have been kept from me.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There is always a consequence for not being good enough.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When I foolishly let my feelings get in the way and came in second during another race, I barely had any dinner to eat.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When I failed to beat my best time for a track race in high school, I walked the twenty miles back home. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So, when I wasn’t good enough to properly do my job and a </span>
  <em>
    <span>child</span>
  </em>
  <span> lost their life as a result - </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We did it for your well being,” Andy breaks my train of thought. Her voice pulls me out of the mental spiral I threaten to lose myself in. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>We</span>
  </em>
  <span>, not just her, alright? We didn’t know what kind of stress you’d be in when you woke up with all these injuries.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I was fine,” I grumble stubbornly, trying to ignore the steadily growing headache. I finally give in, fully unwrap the chocolate, and pop it into my mouth. “I </span>
  <em>
    <span>am</span>
  </em>
  <span> fine.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“If you were </span>
  <em>
    <span>fine</span>
  </em>
  <span>, your hot Italian lady doctor maybe girlfriend would still be sitting here with you instead of </span>
  <em>
    <span>us</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Vic quips, taking the wrapper from me. When she holds out the bag, I shake my head. “There’s no way we’re better company.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“When a gold medal olympian goes into cardiac arrest enroute to the hospital, on top of </span>
  <em>
    <span>everything</span>
  </em>
  <span> else, it kinda gives everyone even more cause for concern, Maya,” Andy points out. “You can’t fault us for looking out for your well being. Any one of us would have done what Carina did and, you know, maybe it should’ve been anyone other than her.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Andy,” Vic warns.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eyebrows furrowing, I frown, glancing between the two of them. “ What does </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> mean?” I question.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Really? Captain Maya Monogamy-is-for-the-Weak Bishop?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Andy</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Vic repeats, a little louder this time.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Anyone with eyes can see how in love the two of you are,” Andy goes on, ignoring Vic. “But there’s a few things: you’ve never been in a relationship for more than a few weeks. You’ve never had feelings like this. Ever. And it scares you.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>With the bag of chocolate still in hand, Vic immediately stands up. “So, I’m going to double check the.. the, um, I don’t want to be here right now,” she admits and rounds the coffee table before vanishing elsewhere in the apartment.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You don’t-” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What? Know you?” Andy laughs. “I probably know you better than anyone here, Maya - also, did you forget that I used to live here, too?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Biting my tongue, I hide my mouth behind my curled up fist and stare intently down at my lap, stupidly wishing I still had that damn chocolate wrap - something to fiddle with. Anything to distract myself. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I lost count at the number of people who’d fall head over heels for you - these one sided relationships that you’d easily kick to the curb when things got just a tiny bit too needy,” Andy points out. “But now you’ve finally met your match - in </span>
  <em>
    <span>every</span>
  </em>
  <span> sense of the word - and you don’t know what to do.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Don’t be ridiculous,” I murmur.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>In return, Andy shakes her head at me. “I’m not - </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>, on the other hand,” her voice trails off as she shrugs her shoulders. “You found something good - </span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span> good - and you got scared.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s not that simple, Andy.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It never is,” Andy agrees. I didn’t expect her to. “But you gotta start thinking, asking yourself why it is you’ve been pushing away and lashing out. What has you so scared?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Without realizing it, I had been biting down into my knuckles. Pulling my head back, I frown down at the teeth marks left behind on the skin. I exhale a deep, shaky breath, and finally look up at Andy. Where I thought I would find a judgemental eye, I see only a concerned friend, someone I haven’t seen in a long time and it’s my fault.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She’s right.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The lashing.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The pushing.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Swallowing hard, I no longer ignore the thoughts that I’ve been ignoring for the better part of a few weeks now. “The only relationship I saw growing up turned out to be.. not what I thought it was,” I slowly begin to explain. “So, how the hell am I supposed to know what love is, Andy? When everything I saw growing up is.. exactly what I’m doing now?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Andy nods along, taking in my concerns. “I don’t think there’s anything I can say that’ll get you to believe that’s not true, but I’m going to say it anyway: you know what love is. At least, you’re learning and it’s.. different from when you’re a kid. You got a lot to work through - even before this incident - and you can’t do it alone, Maya.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I.. I know,” I say softly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So, we’ve, uh, we’ve had the trauma specialist back at the station because, well, turns out nearly losing your captain in a fire is classified as a critical incident and it’s pretty damn traumatic,” Andy reveals. “They’re also expecting </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> to have an appointment with her. And it’s none of my business - I know we’re not close anymore - but I think that’s a good place for you to start. To address everything, maybe.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Not close anymore?” I repeat, raising my eyebrows. “You come over at the drop of a hat and just kindly ripped me a new one, but now we’re not close anymore?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Andy gives a half shrug.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m…I’m sorry,” I finally say. “For being a shitty friend.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, me too,” she replies. “For being an even shitter one.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>With a silent laugh, I roll my eyes and shake my head, which is still throbbing. I just want to lie down. This afternoon has put me through the god damn ringer.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Who’s my stand in at the station? If you say anyone other than you, they picked wrong.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Now it’s Andy’s turn to laugh before she nods.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You were born for that job, Andy,” I comment.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So were you, Captain,” she replies.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>With a small smile, I lower my head and stare down at my lap. “So, uh,” I struggle slightly as the guilt begins once more. “She.. she texted you? You two met?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Not the meeting you were intending, probably - hospital waiting room,” Andy informs. “But she didn’t want you alone, just in case something happened. Even waited outside for us to get here before she left.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Even when you’re mad at me - and you have every right to be mad at me - you’re still looking out for me. I don’t deserve you and I’m going to keep saying it. I’m going to keep saying it until it becomes untrue, until I finally feel worthy, maybe.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Do.. do you know where she went?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Andy shakes her head, “Give her a tiny bit of space though? She.. was pretty upset.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah.. I said a pretty terrible thing,” I admit. “I didn’t mean it. I just..” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I know,” Andy reassures. “But now you’re stuck with us for a bit - where’d Vic get off to anyway?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>On cue, her voice calls out from the hallway, “Eavesdropping!”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you so much for reading up to this point. :) </p><p>I definitely had a moment in the midst of writing this chapter: this is the first fandom I've written in literally five years and I was terrified that I kinda of lost touch with writing in general. Between the last update and this update, I've realized that this fic has blown all my other pieces out of the water. So, honestly: thank you for reading this massive rambling that has completely gotten away from me and become a self-exercise in character perception and perspective. Thank you for all the kudos. Thank you for taking the time to comment. It all means a lot &lt;3</p><p>(I promise things will eventually get a lot fluffier - or maybe I'll write some one-shot fluffs, idk. We'll see how this plays out.)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Chapter 13</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>As Carina walks through the front door with the greatest urge to slam it shut behind her, she reminds herself that she is the one who put herself in this situation. At Maya's most vulnerable, Carina decided to take her back. She foolishly believed that maybe things would be different, that Maya did not show her true colors that evening where she so easily broke Carina's heart and shattered it into a million pieces. </p><p>Empty promises built on empty truths.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“Not all of us speak Italian,” I hear you snap from the living room as I leave you behind with no chance to follow.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The blood in my veins boils as I viciously bit a “I am not like you” back at you sharply as I walk to the end of the hallway, hoping that each word digs just as deeply as your own did to me. I want to scream - I wish I would have too, to release the pent up, building energy caused by your what? Your need to hurt me during my most vulnerable moments?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Why do you do this to me, Maya?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Or, perhaps, a better question: why do I continue to allow it?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As I walk through the front door with the greatest urge to slam it shut behind me, I remind myself that </span>
  <em>
    <span>I </span>
  </em>
  <span>am the one who put myself in this situation. You see, in </span>
  <em>
    <span>your</span>
  </em>
  <span> most vulnerable, I decided to take you back. I foolishly believed that maybe things would be different, that you did not show me your true colors that evening where you so easily broke my heart and shattered it into a million pieces. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Empty promises built on empty truths.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Against my own wishes to cause a bit of havoc in my wake, I close the front door of the apartment gently behind me. It gives me none of the satisfaction I seek and maybe storming off would have as well, but that is also something I cannot do.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Because as beyond furious as I am, I know I also cannot leave you truly alone - not in this state. You are not capable of taking care of yourself right now, no matter how much you protest.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Non sono come te</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” I repeat to myself in a faint whisper only I could hear, fishing my phone from my purse as I lean against the door. Unlocking it, I find my way to my messages and click on my exchange with Andy - someone I considered a nearly complete stranger only a few days ago. She is now a person I have contacted with great frequency lately. I told her when you would be leaving the hospital today. In return, she told me to let her know if I needed anything.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Silly of me to think I would not have to take her up on that offer. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>At least, not so soon, anyway.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Hey, ciao! I do need something, unfortunately: can you please come to the apartment and watch her for me? I cannot.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Yeah, sure. Is everything okay? </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>No. I told her the truth. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And she reacted in true Maya fashion.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Si’.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Are YOU okay, though?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It is a question more and more people seem to be asking me these days, since your incident at work. It is a question to which I have decided to be answering honestly now. No more hiding. No more pretending. No more lying.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>No. I am angry, I am going to say something I regret, and I cannot be here. I do not WANT to be here, but she cannot be alone. There is no way.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’ll be right over -- Vic’s gonna tag along, too.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I will wait outside the front door for the two of you, then. See you soon. Grazie mille.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>After putting my phone back into my purse, I take out my ring of keys - not at all hefty as some of the ones I have seen by any means: car fob, my own house key, and a copy of your apartment key (the newest addition and one that is not going to stay around for much longer). The rather ridiculous struggle that I should have anticipated to maneuver the damn key off the ring results in two things: a broken nail accompanied by a string of muffled Italian curses (as expected, considering how this afternoon is playing out) and an uncelebratory success.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The evening you gave me this key ended up being one of my favorites together. I thought it would just be another night over at your place - not that ‘another night’ with you was ever something I took lightly. It did not matter how many nights or how much time we spent, whenever I stepped foot onto your doormat, whenever I knocked, I still had these childish nervous butterflies in my stomach. The first time was no different than the hundredth, the thousandth, or the millionth time - I was always so unadulterated excited to see you (I think once you compared me to a golden retriever puppy and I did not understand why, but I did enjoy all the puppy videos you showed me to try to prove your point).</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Well, that is what I thought before all this, anyway. Funny how much one’s life can change in such a short amount of time, no? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It had been a pretty uneventful shift, where I had spent the majority of my time in my office - nearly unheard of; I thought I would be on time for once, but as soon as I was lulled into the comfort of a quiet hospital, the universe decided to prove me wrong.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Car accident on the highway involving an unresponsive expecting mother, well along in her pregnancy. Lost consciousness behind the wheel and the vehicle veered into oncoming traffic. The blunt force trauma of the accident placed the baby in distress and called for an emergency c-section. By the end of the chaos, the baby was healthy and the </span>
  <em>
    <span>mamma</span>
  </em>
  <span> stable.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And I was still at the hospital two hours later than I should have been.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>We were accustomed to being late; we both have careers that consistently call for us to stay over the end of our shift. There is nothing we can do about it; it cannot be helped. We were used to pushing times back or rain checks altogether - it is why we only go out when our days off align. There would be virtually no risk of accidentally standing the other up at a restaurant or bar or what have you.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That day, I remember, I asked to postpone for another day. I may have even asked for the following night, I don’t remember, but you were so persistent - adamant that it was not too late, that we could still make dinner together. In the end, it was that pouty face emoji you sent along with your message that made me cave: </span>
  <em>
    <span>...but I miss you.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As if we had not seen each other twice that week already. Perhaps even the day prior.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Ridiculous.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And exactly what I would have done to get you to come over as well.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Truth be told, I had missed you, too.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So maybe we were both a bit ridiculous. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Also, little did I know that you had something hidden up your sleeve for that evening.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When I arrived, you had a glass of white wine ready and waiting for me - impeccable service. You also impressed with your pairing skills, explaining that you knew that even though I preferred white, you choose it based on the pairing and not my preference. It just so happened to work out that way.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The little things like that make my heart flutter - knowing that you do pay attention to my vaguely absurd ramblings. Perhaps I take food and wine a bit too seriously according to some, but if it is something I consider to be important, you listen. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So, now that I am trying to tell you that I was only prioritizing your own health and well being, that </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> were the most important thing to me, why would you not listen? Why would you not let me speak, or defend myself and my choices? I want to understand, Maya, truly, but sometimes you can be so difficult.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>For the menu that evening, we had come to terms and agreed to </span>
  <em>
    <span>spaghetti alla carbonara.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Your aversion to pasta (something I struggle to understand) could be put aside for an evening if we are essentially making a breakfast version of pasta, you reasoned. If that is what it would take you to eat pasta, then I was not able to argue with you.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Though, carbonara could be a rather temperamental dish, hence wanting to postpone to another evening.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But again, you had insisted. It had to be that night. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It is </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> the preparing of the ingredients that makes this a rather temperamental dish. Prepping the ingredients is very easy enough, nor does it require a lot: pancetta, egg, and pecorino cheese -- and, of course, the actual pasta itself. Cooking the pancetta and boiling the pasta does not take much effort.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>No, the margin for error is all in the damn egg and cheese mixture - to ensure that it does not scramble when one mixes it with the spaghetti. When it works perfectly, it is beautiful and delicious. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And then, sometimes, it does not go perfectly.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Like that evening.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>For whatever reason, the egg scrambled that time.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Perhaps we used the wrong bowl.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Perhaps the pasta was just a bit too hot.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Perhaps it sensed I had been on a decent carbonara streak.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Perhaps we did not have the saints on our side.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Perhaps it was because it was a Thursday.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Who knows?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Annoyed and tired, I grumbled away at how it should have looked and how it should have tasted. You assured me that it was fine - but it should have been </span>
  <em>
    <span>more</span>
  </em>
  <span> than </span>
  <em>
    <span>fine</span>
  </em>
  <span>. You teased me, called me grumpy, which was.. a tiny bit warranted. Grumpy is a bit of an understatement to what I become when exhausted, but you deal with it - with </span>
  <em>
    <span>me</span>
  </em>
  <span> in good humor.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>We had wine, we had still edible pasta, and we had each other. Still sounded like a good, quiet evening at home.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Plus, there was a surprise dessert (the reason as to why, I learned, you were safeguarding the fridge all evening) and maybe that would raise my spirits after our kitchen failure. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I have also grown accustomed to not liking or particularly enjoying surprises, though. My track record is not what one would call good and they were always life changing, forcing me to adapt from a sense of normalcy I desperately wanted since I was kid: surprise! </span>
  <em>
    <span>Mamma e papa’ </span>
  </em>
  <span>are separating - no more fighting! Surprise! </span>
  <em>
    <span>Mamma e Andrea</span>
  </em>
  <span> are moving to the United States - isn’t that exciting? Surprise! Did merit alone earn that acceptance letter for the medical program in Catania or did </span>
  <em>
    <span>Papa’ </span>
  </em>
  <span>bribing the chief also have something to do with it, who knows? Surprise! The relationship with </span>
  <em>
    <span>Mamma</span>
  </em>
  <span> you though would finally begin to heal is gone - she died in her sleep! Surprise! That patient we just told that her baby would not make it to term - </span>
  <em>
    <span>Papa’</span>
  </em>
  <span> just promised them he could grow the child in a bag.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>No, I prefer to know what is coming so I could prepare for the outcome. Maybe, I thought, with you, I could start to enjoy surprises, especially something like this - something little and small (but you would later only add to the list, Maya: surprise! I slept with Jack an hour ago!).</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But this, you ensured was something you made on your own; something Italian; and something that was my absolute favorite.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Pulling the covered glass tray from the fridge, you looked so absolutely proud of yourself which was enough on its own to put me at ease. Setting the tray down on the counter and removing the aluminium foil, I gasped at the reveal: homemade </span>
  <em>
    <span>tiramisu’</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As I could not contain my smile, you rambled about why it needed to be tonight (unsure of how long the dish could sit in the fridge and </span>
  <em>
    <span>still</span>
  </em>
  <span> be good) and finding the perfect recipe -- in Italian, no less. When prompted how you managed, you shrugged your shoulders and vaguely mentioned owing the battalion chief a favor now, but it would be worth it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Forgoing plates altogether, we brought the tray to the living room couch and we proceeded to eat way more than we probably should have; with your sweet tooth and, well, my favorite dessert, we definitely had more </span>
  <em>
    <span>tiramisu’</span>
  </em>
  <span> that evening than the pasta, but neither of us would complain. My sour mood melted away with each bite, as we cuddled closed in the middle of the sofa. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That was it, I thought: the perfect way to end the night, but then you held out this key. It was an extra key to the apartment - </span>
  <em>
    <span>my</span>
  </em>
  <span> key, if I wanted it. I was over enough, anyway, might as well be able to let myself in during the off chance I beat you home. I remember repeating that word to you: </span>
  <em>
    <span>home</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Your face immediately flushed. You were so red at that slip of tongue. As I took the key, I admitted that being with you </span>
  <em>
    <span>did</span>
  </em>
  <span> feel like home.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>My heart nearly exploded out of happiness from the sight; funny, how now the very same was ripping it in two and making me feel like a complete, unwanted stranger.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Back up is here.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>My head snaps up at the sound of a new voice. Upon seeing the two women who came to my rescue, I offer a sheepish, pathetic smile. I do not know what else to do, if there is anything else I </span>
  <em>
    <span>can</span>
  </em>
  <span> do.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Grazie</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” I murmur quietly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What happened?” Andy asks. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Shrugging my shoulders, I admit, “We.. got into an argument - a fight.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You guys have been out of the hospital for what? An hour?” Andy comments. “And already?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I just nod in defeat.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You know, I don’t know you that well yet, Carina,” Vic speaks up as she takes a step forward. “But I </span>
  <em>
    <span>will</span>
  </em>
  <span> kick your girlfriend’s ass for you - defend your honor and all that. Just say the word.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Looking down, I could not help but laugh and roll my eyes at the offer. “I don’t even know if that’s what she is to me - or me to her. Girlfriend,” I confess.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re only saying that because you </span>
  <em>
    <span>know</span>
  </em>
  <span> Maya can’t stand her ground. Literally,” Andy points out with a scoff. “But we can put her back in her place verbally.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They go back and forth a tiny bit among themselves, but I do not pay attention to their conversation. Instead, I reach back into my purse and pull out my handwritten notes and papers given to me by the hospital - everything they’ll need to know to take care of you while I am gone. With the key, I hand them over to Andy. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She takes the papers, but tries to return the key. “I still have my copy from when I lived here,” she tells me.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Really?” Vic asks.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I never got around to giving it back,” Andy explains, still holding it out to me.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I shake my head and my voice trembles slightly, as if it knows the truth as it speaks this half lie, “I, uh, I do not want it anymore.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The silence, however short it is, deafens, causing my stomach to twist and turn uncomfortably. Andy does not pull her hand away, but I still refuse to take the key back. Andy then extends her each, raising her eyebrows at me. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Again, I shake my head at her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She sighs as she pulls back to fold up the papers to tuck into her jeans pocket, but once again, she holds out the key to me. “Listen, I already have </span>
  <em>
    <span>one</span>
  </em>
  <span> key to give back to her and that’s my own conversation I gotta brace myself for,” she points out. “I think you need to do the same, if that’s truly what you want, but.. maybe take some time to think about it?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“There’s a lot going on right now,” Vic agrees. “Emotions running pretty high and stuff.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But I continue to shake my head.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Then, this is what I’m gonna do,” Andy says, tucking my -- no, </span>
  <em>
    <span>your</span>
  </em>
  <span> extra key into her other pocket. “I’ll hold on to it for you until whenever you’re ready for it back. In the meantime, though, we’ve got her. She’s in good hands.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I know she is and I just,” I pause, shoulders dropping. “I just need to take a step back.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No one blames you for that,” Vic reassures. “We can only imagine how exhausting it’s been, you know?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Grazie di nuovo</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Thank you, again,” I repeat before we part ways. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As both Andy and Vic step inside the apartment, I can hear your voice echo and project as the front door begins to close. You most certainly know how to make yourself heard in whatever circumstance, don’t you? Stern and unrelenting in your set ways, I catch your “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Leave</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Carina.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And believe me, it is </span>
  <em>
    <span>all</span>
  </em>
  <span> I want to do right now - to leave, maybe selfishly never look back for that matter.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Getting into my car, I slam the door shut, a luxury I </span>
  <em>
    <span>wish</span>
  </em>
  <span> I had allowed myself on the apartment door, especially after… </span>
  <em>
    <span>leave, Carina</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Anger and frustration erupting once more, I grip the steering wheel tightly, my knuckles turning white as I try to even out my breathing, as I try to calm myself. My eyes fixate on the guest parking sign in front of my car, warning me of violators and towing fees. I stare at the letters, focus on them.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Calmati. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Tranquila. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Andra’ tutto bene.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Everything will be okay, though I feel as though I am lying to myself.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A couple raindrops land on my windshield, breaking my concentration. Frowning, I lean forward and look up: grey skies. Always with the grey skies in this city. I hate this weather. Swallowing the growing lump in my throat, I hit the ignition button and carefully back out of the parking space before leaving the apartment complex all together. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This is the same exact weather we endured during </span>
  <em>
    <span>Mamma</span>
  </em>
  <span>’s funeral. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When it rains, I think about that day.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I end up thinking about that day a lot.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sitting in the front row aisle with Andrea and </span>
  <em>
    <span>Papa’</span>
  </em>
  <span>, feeling as if I was the one on display as we were staring at the closed casket in front of the altar. There she was, the estranged daughter of the woman who separated her family with an entire ocean - the daughter who could not even spare a single tear for her own mother, when in reality I was still in shock over our sudden, dramatic life changing event. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Two days prior, I had picked her up from the airport. We had dinner together.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Two days later, I was at her </span>
  <em>
    <span>funeral</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The church was packed with people - mostly by strangers and people I could barely remember from my childhood since before </span>
  <em>
    <span>Mamma</span>
  </em>
  <span> left Italy. All were watching. I could </span>
  <em>
    <span>feel</span>
  </em>
  <span> them watching, as much as I could feel Andrea trying so hard to not cry as he sat, pressed next to me. His breathing would hitch, his whole body would tense. Every now and again, a small whimper would escape him. I held my hand out for him to take, if he wanted it. He took it and I held his hand for the entire service, a pitiful attempt at comfort.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The procession from the church to the cemetery, the rain had been relentless. There had been no end in sight. Even when we got home that evening, it was still raining - as if Mother Nature herself was mourning our loss.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And she was doing a hell of a lot better job than I was.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Andrea was furious with me - told me that the least I could have done was pretend to care. That for once in my life, I could have at least </span>
  <em>
    <span>tried</span>
  </em>
  <span> to be her daughter. He was hurting, I kept telling myself. He lost the parent he was closer to; he had a different relationship with her than I did. He was not the one who felt abandoned or resentful. I did not explain myself - it would not have done any good anyway. He continued to call me names: cruel, heartless, all the likes. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He is more like </span>
  <em>
    <span>Papa’</span>
  </em>
  <span> than he knows or he cares to admit.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I know he did not mean anything that he said that evening.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Again, he was hurting and he just.. wanted me to show him that I was too, but, unfortunately, I had a lifetime experience of keeping emotions to myself. A lifetime’s worth of </span>
  <em>
    <span>non piangere</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Perche’ sei cosi’? Sei ridicola. Non essere cosi’. Basta.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Don’t cry.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Why are you like this?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You are ridiculous.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Do not be like this.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Enough.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I hid away in my room after </span>
  <em>
    <span>Papa’</span>
  </em>
  <span> tried to intervene - as much one </span>
  <em>
    <span>could</span>
  </em>
  <span> intervene with a few stern </span>
  <em>
    <span>bambini, basta</span>
  </em>
  <span> thrown into the mix. When I finally felt as though I were safe in the solitude of my bedroom, I collapsed onto my bed and into the emotions I spent two days incapable of feeling. I fell head first into the sorrow as I wrapped myself tightly into the fetal position; the powerful wave of grief washed over me, and the anguish of a fleeting repaired relationship I could have had with my mother nearly suffocated me.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She was </span>
  <em>
    <span>gone</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>All of a sudden, </span>
  <em>
    <span>gone</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He heard me crying in the bedroom next door - the guest room that was once his. He snuck into my room, not that it required sneaking. The sounds of my own sobs drowned out everything else. He sat down on the edge of my bed and rested his hand out on the mattress space in front of me. He did not reach out; he waited. He waited for me.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Because if he was going to comfort me, it would at least be on my own terms.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When I grabbed his hand, he gave mine a gentle squeeze. I pulled myself up and into his embrace. He wrapped his arms around me and soothingly rubbed my back as he gently whispered apologies over and over again. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His hugs are just like </span>
  <em>
    <span>Mamma</span>
  </em>
  <span>’s.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I ended up crying even harder.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The rain picks up when I reach the facility. Sans umbrella, I run across the parking lot as fast as I can and enter the building to check in as a visitor for my first visit. All my texts up until this point have gone ignored - my phone calls, too. Now I am hoping that he will not ignore me when they tell him that I am actually here.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The visitor’s room I am escorted to is very plain: no decorations on the dully painted off white walls. There is a table with four chairs. Placing my purse down on one after fetching my phone, I take a seat in another and I wait.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And I expect a long wait, but I barely have enough time to log into my work email before the door across from me opens. Again, I expect a nurse, ready to tell me that my baby brother does not want to see me, perhaps another time.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>No, instead, he takes a step inside and closes the door behind him. He looks worried at my unannounced presence. The tears welling up in my eyes probably do not help the matter any either.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Carina,” he says my name so gently, so drastically opposite from the way you spat it as I left your apartment. It is enough to send the tears falling. He walks around the table, where I abandon my phone as I stand up. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Che ci fai qui?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>What am I doing here? He grabs me in his familiar embrace - a hug that only he could give me, one that offers comfort and makes me feel safe. That is why I am here and I do not want to admit it. It makes me feel so childish. It is also not the thing that I want to admit anyway.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>With a heavy sigh, I bury my face into his chest and hold him equally tight as I confess: “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Voglio ritornare in Italia.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I want to return to Italy.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Come sempre, grazie mille &lt;3</p><p>As always, thank youuuu &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Chapter 14</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>For as far as the eye can see (almost), the golden beach stretches. Off to the distance on Carina's left, the beautiful Mount Etna commands the skyline, softly puffing little clouds of smoke from the crater. It is a true gentle giant which contains unimaginable destructive power, able to decimate the entire city that lays at its base and the numerous tiny towns that climb it. We have all learned to co-exists with each other. As soon as she lays sight on the volcano, the warmth of home and familiarity always returns.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>For as far as the eye can see (almost), the golden beach stretches. Off to the distance on my left, the beautiful Mount Etna commands the skyline, softly puffing little clouds of smoke from the crater. It is a true gentle giant which contains unimaginable destructive power, able to decimate the entire city that lays at its base and the numerous tiny towns that climb it. We have all learned to co-exists with each other. As soon as I lay sight on the volcano, the warmth of home and familiarity always returns.</p><p> </p><p>Finding the perfect spot at the beach is always critical and my plan in doing so has not changed since high school (maybe even middle school - I cannot recall exactly): go in the morning (preferably by vespa as to help with the parking situation), just after a breakfast of <em> cappuccino e un cornetto </em> or maybe two, when the crowds are still small. It is a plan my closest friends and I still share.</p><p> </p><p>Truth be told: it is not a very original plan.</p><p> </p><p>It is shared by many.</p><p> </p><p>Least of all the tourists, though, and that is all matters, really.</p><p> </p><p>It is still not the right time of year for most of them anyway.</p><p> </p><p>So not much of a worry.</p><p> </p><p>Upon finding a suitable spot, one lays out a towel where the dry sand meets the damp - evidence of the high tide- and preferably close to a bar, as well, for all your <em> gelato </em> cravings (a couple scoops of <em> amarena </em> in a <em> brioche </em> bun) or <em> Spritz </em>fixes, among other things. Not to mention the picnics of sandwiches with assorted deli meats and cheeses made at home from loaves of bread bought that morning from the bakery - just before breakfast.</p><p> </p><p>It is a great itinerary - my preferred one, actually, when I am home.</p><p> </p><p>A perfect recipe for a perfect day.</p><p> </p><p>I always lay out with my legs hanging off the towel, so I could bury my feet into the gold colored sand. I lay there for <em> hours </em>, allowing the mediterrean sun to kiss my skin and engulf me in its warmth. The light breeze carries with it the unmistakable scent of the sea that I miss. Sometimes, I accompany myself with a good book, other times, it is the people watching: everyone of all ages kicking a soccer ball back and forth, or playing volley in the water; little kids playing in the sand and trying to make castles or sand arancini balls; and the groups walking along the shore, having various conversations about everything and nothing.</p><p> </p><p>All things I gladly take part in: a walk along the beach with friends from my school days; trying to help their kids build the best and biggest sand castle that could rival Castello Ursino itself; and I partake in a couple rounds of volley because I long to be back in the water.</p><p> </p><p>And then there is the majestic sea itself, with shades of blue stretching far beyond the horizon. The sound of waves washing up and crashing against the shore brings with it a sense of peace and zen I can find nowhere else in the world.</p><p> </p><p>With the setting sun behind us and the crowds dwindling, we start a bonfire right there on the beach and enjoy the changing colors of the sky as we roast for a light dinner freshly caught fish straight from the sea we spent the day admiring and enjoying.</p><p> </p><p>A day at the beach is <em> always </em>a day well spent. </p><p> </p><p>Like I said - the perfect itinerary for a great day.</p><p> </p><p>A sure fire way to forget all of one’s worries and problems, even for a short amount of time. It is what I desperately want: an escape from what life has dealt me recently.</p><p> </p><p>I miss it. </p><p> </p><p>I miss the beach.</p><p> </p><p>I miss home.</p><p> </p><p>I miss not feeling this.. <em> non lo so </em>.. it is rather indescribable - the exhaustion, the brokenness. The extremeness of it all that just will not end.</p><p> </p><p>“<em> Voglio ritornare in Italia,” </em>I mumble quietly, resting my forehead against Andrea’s shoulder, still a little lost in my imagination and vision of a place I once called home. It is one of the few times where I do not mind that my baby brother is taller than me.</p><p> </p><p>The confession is followed by a hesitant pause from both of us, as if neither knows how to proceed from here. </p><p> </p><p>Confusion lingers heavily in the air as he stops rubbing my back, but Andrea does not pull away. He allows me to stay in the embrace for as long as I need to. “<em> What.. what do you mean?” </em> he asks for clarification, in Italian. “ <em> Go back to Italy? Why? What happened?” </em></p><p> </p><p>What happened? </p><p> </p><p>Where do I even begin to explain?</p><p> </p><p>We are <em> terrible </em> at talking to each other, ever since <em> Papa’ e Mamma’s </em>divorce - since we were spending every waking moment with each other during our briefly shared childhood. I mean, there were postcards and letters, of course - phone calls, too. However, a lot of said phone calls were quick ‘say hi to your brother!’s. </p><p> </p><p>And that was the extent of those very short conversations between the two of us, always: <em> ciao, come stai? Bene. </em> </p><p> </p><p>Rinse and repeat for years. </p><p> </p><p>But our visits? In the handful of times we spent visiting (I to the States and you to Italy), we always picked up as if no amount of time had passed. We would fall right back into step with each other after some quick rounds of life updates.</p><p> </p><p>And, honestly, we <em> have </em> gotten better as adults at keeping in touch with each other, though we still have moments of going a period of time without contact - or just flat out ignoring the other.</p><p> </p><p>Always room for improvement, in any case, I suppose.</p><p> </p><p>Regardless of such a thing, he will always be my <em> fratellino </em>. </p><p> </p><p>My baby brother.</p><p> </p><p>I don't even know where to start with all this, Maya. Andrea has not even met you yet - not formally, at least and that is my own fault. He has seen pictures and heard stories - the good ones only, so far, considering I did not want to bother him with my own worries and problems on top of what he was facing.</p><p> </p><p>He knows you are a firefighter and he got a good look at you during one of his shifts at the hospital. He was in the pit and you had dropped off a patient you and your team had rescued. You handed the patient off to him after rattling off all the information you could. You were out of there before you could register who you interacted with - another call, he assumed.</p><p> </p><p>And the only reason why I found out is that he immediately made a beeline for my office, where I was taking a short break in between patients. He stood in the doorway with the biggest, <em> stupidest </em> grin on his face. I asked him what his problem was, in truth elder sibling fashion. He shrugged his shoulders and told me that I was right - she’s very beautiful ( <em> “Hai ragione - e’ molto bella”). </em></p><p> </p><p>Before I could put the pieces together and reply to his comment, he excused himself to go back to the pit in order to continue his shift. He could not pass up that moment to mess with his older sister.</p><p> </p><p>Part of the unwritten sibling code.</p><p> </p><p>Giving him one more good tight squeeze, I finally let go and take a seat at the table, now across from my purse. Andrea helps himself to the chair next to me. His concerned gaze never leaves me; he is waiting for an answer from me, but I am still struggling to determine a starting point. There is a lot.</p><p> </p><p>There is no easing into the story; might as well dive straight into it - rip the bandaid off, or however the saying goes. I tell him that we broke up a bit ago because of… because you decided to sleep with your ex instead of dealing with your anger in a more healthier manner. Automatically, he sits a bit more rigid and his hands now ball up into fists as his lips thin. He is ready to come to his sister’s defense. He is good like that. </p><p> </p><p>But I also come to <em> your </em> defense and explain how pushy I was that day - how I did not respect your boundaries and tried to force you to talk or see something you were not ready to. He tells me to stop making excuses, but I insist. See, I replay that day a lot, Maya, trying to pinpoint where I went wrong - at what moments I hit a nerve and pushed harder than I should have. I am not trying to justify what you did. I am saying that there is.. a bit of fault to be shared, maybe.</p><p> </p><p>Then you came to me while I was at work, begging for forgiveness and to take you back. You confessed your love and I did, too. That part remains true: I <em> do </em> love you, Maya. I just do not know <em> how </em> anymore, not if you keep pushing me away.</p><p> </p><p>Andrea begins to protest in the middle of it all, but I ignore him and carry on. If I were to stop for his commentary, <em> tomorrow’s </em> visiting hours would be up. Also, what is done is done. There is no changing the past, anyway.</p><p> </p><p>I explain the odd texting for what felt like an eternity - how the various sparks were not enough to light the embers of an actual conversation. We were both afraid, for drastically different reasons, I imagine, to talk to the other person. </p><p> </p><p>Then… there was the fire from a few days ago. </p><p> </p><p>Andrea’s demeanor changes as I describe the incident and your injuries. His shoulders once tensed with anger now lax in disbelief. He scoots his chair closer to me and reaches out for my hand, which I take. A gentle, tiny squeeze is his small way of showing me that he is here for me.</p><p> </p><p>Though the anger returns when I tell him about today, confirming that this whole situation is, as Amelia put it, a roller coaster that I did not ask permission to ride and I just want <em> off </em>. </p><p> </p><p>Or maybe I did get on this ride voluntarily; I just did not anticipate the number of sudden drops and loops.</p><p> </p><p>I hate roller coasters. </p><p> </p><p>“<em> That’s a lot,” </em> he comments, taking a quick glance towards the door from which I entered previously. Through the tempered glass, we spot a couple of shadows walking passed. </p><p> </p><p>“<em> It’s okay that we’ve been here for this long…?” </em></p><p> </p><p>To my concern, he nods. “<em> They’re just probably adoring the romantic sounds of Italian,” </em> he replies.</p><p> </p><p>With a small laugh, I roll my eyes and shake my head at him. “<em> If only they knew, eh? What fun topics we’re actually talking about.”  </em></p><p> </p><p>In return, he shrugs his shoulders at me.</p><p> </p><p>We have both lost count at the numerous times we have been told how lovely it sounds when we speak Italian. And we are <em> both </em> extremely guilty of using it as a means to flirt - a way to both hide and express your true feelings, though only one of us has been called out on it.</p><p> </p><p>And, well, the other may.. have once - at most twice, maybe - recited a list of chores instead of a love poem as they said they would.</p><p> </p><p>Like I said, just once or twice. </p><p> </p><p>One night stands. </p><p> </p><p>They did not matter. </p><p> </p><p>They were just fun.</p><p> </p><p>Also, I was never one to memorize entire poems, either.</p><p> </p><p>Phrases, yes.</p><p> </p><p>And I have repeated my favorite to you many times, Maya. Never would I imagine that I would be doubting having shared it with you.</p><p> </p><p>You have asked me on multiple occasions if I would translate for you, whenever I would recite it to you. It was beautiful, you said, and you wanted to know what it meant. Each time, I refused - it just did not feel right. I was not ready to confess such feelings, not that I told you as much. You only knew that it just was not the right time and I would tell you eventually.</p><p> </p><p>Even not knowing what it meant, you still called it beautiful. It sounded so alluring and you thoroughly enjoy it when I speak Italian to you.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Non sono come te. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>… for the most part, I now assume.</p><p> </p><p>“<em> But going back? Would that solve anything?” </em> he questions. “ <em> Or are you just running away? You don’t run, Carina. Carina DeLuca doesn’t run away. She faces her problems head on and fights for what she believes in - stubbornly so.” </em></p><p> </p><p>“<em> Who’s calling it running, huh? Why can’t it be a prolonged visit where she ignores all her responsibilities? Why can’t she be.. tired of fighting. Sometimes it’s futile to keep fighting, you know,” </em> I remark, slowly pulling my hand back.</p><p> </p><p>I can hear him sigh lightly as I place my hands on my lap. Staring down at them, I start to pick nervously at my nails. A terrible habit, I know - one that I have not been able to fully break since I was little.</p><p> </p><p>“<em> You’ve had your heart broken before,” </em> he notes. “ <em> There was.. that girl from high school? What’s her name again?” </em></p><p> </p><p><em> “Doesn’t matter,” </em> I reply, wrinkling my nose. <em> “And was far from a relationship - that was a mess Papa’ accidentally walked in on.”  </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “What about Dr. Robbins?” </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> “That was different,” </em> I murmur. “ <em> I mean, yes, it hurt, but.. this feels </em> so <em> much.. The way I feel for her, I can’t put it into justifiable words.”  </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “You love her.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> “I love her,” </em> I repeat, nodding along. “ <em> And I feel foolish for saying it, but.. that scares me.” </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Why?” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>My shoulders fall slightly as I tilt my head to the side, still keeping my gaze down. “<em> Because,” </em> I begin slowly. “ <em> I mean… Here is this person - this person that every time I saw her, it felt as though the rest of the world disappeared. That when we were together, nothing else mattered. Time both stopped and moved too quickly. When I was with her, I felt.. unadulterated bliss and then an incredibly yearning when I wasn’t.” </em></p><p> </p><p>Taking a gander up, I see that he is still watching and listening to me intently. Though we do spend quite a bit of time poking fun and arguing with each other, we come through for the other in the end.</p><p> </p><p>I am glad that he is listening to all this, as nonsensical as it may sound.</p><p> </p><p>“<em> And then, when I learned what she did - when she threw it in my face that evening,” </em> I continue on. “ <em> Andrea, I was </em> so <em> angry.”  </em></p><p> </p><p><em> “I’ve seen you angry; it’s terrifying,” </em> he comments. “ <em> I remember you took out that Vespa’s headlight that one time-” </em></p><p> </p><p><em> “ </em> That <em> was an accident!”  </em></p><p> </p><p><em> “That was a well timed accident - at least it was </em> your <em> Vespa.”  </em></p><p> </p><p><em> “Anyway,” </em>I press forward. </p><p> </p><p><em> “Anyway,” </em>he repeats.</p><p> </p><p><em> “At first I was angry because.. well, for the obvious reasons, but then.. I was angry at myself,” </em> I try to explain. “ <em> That in that moment, when she said that she loved me, where she was </em> begging <em> me for another chance.. With any other person, I would have walked away; I </em> should <em> have walked away.”  </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “You didn’t, though.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>I shake my head. No, I did not.</p><p> </p><p>“<em> You don’t think there’s a reason for that </em>?” he follows up.</p><p> </p><p>“<em> Of course there’s a reason,” </em> I automatically reply. “ <em> That even after all that, I still find myself here, feeling the exact same way. That after all that hurt, I </em> still <em> love her and I still care deeply for her.” </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “So, what does going back achieve?”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>A short moment of silence passes before I allow myself to answer.</p><p> </p><p><em> “That maybe the distance and time will help me forget these feelings,” </em> I confess.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “And do you want to? Forget?”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> “No,” </em> I say so firmly that it even surprises me. Looking up, I find my brother leaning towards the table, where he is propping himself up with his elbow and resting the side of his face against his fist as he carefully watches me. <em> “But.. I also can’t keep up with all of these punches she’s throwing my way,” </em> I add, slumping down in my own chair.</p><p> </p><p><em> “Then, I think we both know that I’m not the person you should be having his conversation with </em>,” he remarks.</p><p> </p><p><em> “It’s easier to speak to you instead,” </em> I admit.</p><p> </p><p>He shrugs his shoulders and says, “<em> Unfortunately, it’s not about easy - wanting to run all the way  back to Italy should be your first clue.” </em></p><p> </p><p>Flashing him a small smile, I ask, “<em> When did my baby brother become so wise, eh?”  </em></p><p> </p><p>Andrea smirks back at me and, once again, gives me a shoulder shrug. He reaches across the table for my phone and hands it to me. “<em> Then you know what to do,” </em> he says. <em> “Call a truce - a parley, even.”  </em></p><p> </p><p>Taking my phone from him and setting it back down on the table, I raise my eyebrows before quipping, “<em> I take back the wise comment. You’re still the pirate obsessed little boy I grew up with.”  </em></p><p> </p><p><em> “I’m </em> not <em> obsessed-”  </em></p><p> </p><p><em> “Every time Papa’ took us fishing, you tried to get me to ‘walk the plank,’” </em> I point out. “ <em> Hell, there was even that one time where you tried to throw me overboard.”  </em></p><p> </p><p><em> “He was so pissed,” </em> Andrea recalls, struggling to keep his laugh to himself. </p><p> </p><p>“<em> Because we </em> nearly <em> caused the boat to capsize and we lost some of the fish,” </em> I remember. <em> “And right after that, he’d start to leave us on the beach after an hour onboard - too rambunctious.” </em></p><p> </p><p><em> “A pirate stranded on a deserted island, watching his ship sail away without him,” </em> he recounts with a heavy sigh. <em> “Stuck on shore trying to evade the siren.”  </em></p><p> </p><p><em> “Siren?” </em> I repeat. <em> “Really?” </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “You’d chase me around, shrieking - what else would you be?” </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> “I’m fairly certain sirens don’t shriek - which I </em> wasn’t <em> doing,” </em> I retort. <em> “I was tasked with keeping an eye on my little brother who </em> wouldn’t <em> stay put.” </em></p><p> </p><p><em> “You’re right, sirens don’t shriek, they sing, </em> ” Andrea corrects himself before smirking. <em> “But you gotta admit: banshees don’t really fit the narrative.”  </em></p><p> </p><p><em> “Banshee!” </em> I gasp. “ <em> You’re </em> so <em> rude!”  </em></p><p> </p><p>We share a laugh and for a split second everything feels normal. It is in that moment when it finally hits me. I immediately sit up straight in my seat and you automatically follow suit in panic. <em> “What?!” </em> he asks, voice strained. “ <em> What’s wrong?” </em></p><p> </p><p><em> “I’m so selfish!” </em> I chastise myself, in complete disbelief.</p><p> </p><p>“<em> I don’t think I’m following.”  </em></p><p> </p><p>“<em> This whole time, it’s me, me, me, me, me - I didn’t even bother to ask,” </em> I continue to reprimand, frowning as I sit on the edge of my seat. <em> “How are you? How are you doing here?” </em> </p><p> </p><p>He nearly collapses against the back of his chair as his shoulders fall, releasing the sudden tension that I accidentally caused. “<em> Oh, is that all?”  </em></p><p> </p><p><em> “Is that all?” </em> I repeat. <em> “I haven’t heard from you in ages, you give me no updates-”  </em></p><p> </p><p><em> “I’m fine - a lot of time to think about.. things,” </em> he insists. <em> “Everything’s going according to the plan that was laid out. I’ll be done with the program in no time.”  </em></p><p> </p><p>I nod, “<em> Okay, good. I’m proud of you, you know..”  </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “What’s there to be proud of?”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> “A lot and you know it,” </em> I reply. “ <em> I love you, Andrea - even when we don’t see eye to eye.”  </em></p><p> </p><p><em> “Yeah, yeah, yeah, me too,” </em> he grumbles and nudges my phone closer to me. “ <em> Make sure you tell the other person in your life that probably needs to hear that, too. Start that conversation.”  </em></p><p> </p><p>Part of me wants to tell him again that he is wise, but another part of me doubts that the self-proclaimed five year old pirate needs that ego boost again - he <em> did </em> call me a banshee, after all. Picking up my phone and before I could lose my nerve, I shoot on a short, simple, and to the point text: <em> Can we please talk? </em></p><p> </p><p>“<em> Done,” </em> I state, looking up at Andrea who is smiling at me. He gives me a thumbs up and I cannot help but give him a small grin in return. “ <em> You’re a good brother. I don’t tell you enough - and my guest room is yours for as long as you need it.”  </em></p><p> </p><p>“<em> You’re a good sister, too.”  </em></p><p> </p><p>The weather is not much better when I head back to my car - still dready and grey, with light showers (at least it is not pouring). If I am not used to the rain by now, I almost believe I am never going to be; growing up on a sunny island has completely spoiled me - and I still miss it. There is still that ache to go back and that need to hide, but Andrea is right: it will not solve anything and I am not one to run away.</p><p> </p><p>Now should not be the time to start.</p><p> </p><p>Once in my car, I check my phone. No alerts.</p><p> </p><p>I check again when I park outside my townhome. Still no messages.</p><p> </p><p>Inside, I once again… and, well, nothing. </p><p> </p><p>It is a process that I am doomed to repeat for the rest of the day. I try to distract myself: a hot shower, homemade dinner of a slightly more complex than usual recipe (because why not), dishes (that is why not), cleaning the kitchen (to further prove why not), finally getting back to work emails I’ve been meaning to respond to - everything.</p><p> </p><p>No response.</p><p> </p><p>Okay, fine.</p><p> </p><p>I mean, I suppose that it is fine.</p><p> </p><p>Unable to keep my eyes open any further, I drag myself upstairs and into my room where I toss my phone onto the bed before setting forth with my evening routine.</p><p> </p><p>I should have gathered that this was also among the list of potential outcomes.</p><p> </p><p>Why would I expect a guaranteed conversation, especially how I stormed out of your place? You were so mad. I understand that. Maybe I am the last person you wish to speak to at the moment and I have no choice but to respect that.</p><p> </p><p>But there are things that I do need to tell you, Maya - so many things. I do not want to keep things bottled up; I do not want to hide anything from you.</p><p> </p><p>In a pair of shorts and a tank top, I throw my hair up into a messy bun and leave the bathroom. Laying down in bed, I pull the covers around me and I allow myself to relax for the first time today. Finding my phone on the opposite side of the bed, the screen lights up as I bring it up to my face.</p><p> </p><p>Immediately, I sit up in bed.</p><p> </p><p>New notification - Maya Bishop.</p><p> </p><p>A one word response.</p><p> </p><p>Just one simple word.</p><p> </p><p>My heart starts racing.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>For the sake of saving space with translations, all the conversation between the DeLuca siblings that is italicised is in Italian. I hope that was clear? I debated putting this note at the beginning, where it would have made a bit more sense, but I also selfishly/cruelly wanted people to believe that Carina DID go off to Italy (sorry ^^;).</p><p>Also, I may or may not have written this while I was /supposed/ to have been doing work stuff. Making great adult decisions over here. :D</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Chapter 15</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Carina wrote a few hours ago, now. Maya stares at the text, biting down on her lip as she narrows her eyes at the simple, yet loaded question. With a heavy sigh, she stares up towards the ceiling. The glow from the screen was just enough to still make her feel woozy.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>As Vic and Andy continue to talk back and forth, the headache becomes too much to physically bear; I swear I can feel the pounding of my own heart painfully erupting from behind my eye, just where my head laceration is. The nausea hits me out of nowhere. Before I can stop myself, I dry heavy.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The conversation stops immediately. The attention is back on me - I hate being the center of attention.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Winning medals and trophies? That’s the center of attention I’ve come to enjoy.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This is a whole different kind of center of attention - where the on display feature is not focusing on my accomplishments and wins, but rather on just how much I managed to royally screw up my job.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I’m usually so damn good at my job.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But you wouldn’t be able to tell at the moment - here, sitting on the couch, unable to do a damn thing for myself. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They’re both instantly at my side - Vic and Andy - asking what’s wrong and if I’m okay (do I look okay?). They’re murmuring of pain medication and getting a hold of you once I admit that my head feels as if it is literally splitting in two, followed by the fluttering of papers - your notes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Too early for another dose, they conclude.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Fine, that’s fine.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>All I want is to not be here, on this couch. I want a dark room. I want no nose. I want to be alone. Maybe that will help. Maybe I don’t have to deal with the consequences of my actions from today, at least.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And it takes the both of them to get me off the damn couch. In the foreignness of feeling </span>
  <em>
    <span>this</span>
  </em>
  <span> helpless, the anger boils all over again. I </span>
  <em>
    <span>hate</span>
  </em>
  <span> this. They insist on the wheelchair that you borrowed from the hospital - remind me that I really shouldn’t mess around with all these injuries, not if I wanted to get back to work as soon as possible.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Begrudgingly, I agree and let them help me to the bedroom and finally to the bed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In your spot - well, what has become and what </span>
  <em>
    <span>was</span>
  </em>
  <span> your spot, or even </span>
  <em>
    <span>used</span>
  </em>
  <span> to be your spot - was the firefighter bear. Vic’s present. She’s glad to see it here. I’m surprised that it is. I told you to keep it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then it dawns on me that.. you probably had intentions of staying here before I put my foot in my mouth.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With those thoughts, I sit alone in the dark room, in complete silence - aside from the loud banging echoing from my own head. It is relentless. It does not let me rest. It does not let me relax, but I don’t allow myself to complain.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Push through it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eyes forward.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With the bear against my chest, my arms wrapped around it, I lay there for an eternity. I can’t even check the time on my phone - the light was too bright. It made the nausea so much worse.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eventually, Andy comes back into the room. She comes bearing gifts: my next round of pain meds and a plate of reheated veggie pizza that you brought over. I help myself to the meds; Andy forces the pizza on me, warning me about taking such things on an empty stomach. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I hate when she uses logic against me.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I hate that she’s right. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Out of necessity, I eat one slice. Once the medication finally kicks in and the pain begins to subdue, I easily fall asleep.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Late evening, I guess, is when I wake. Struggling to blink through the grogginess, I turn my attention to the nightstand on my immediate left where I find a glass of water with a sticky note.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Drink me! :)’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Vic’s handwriting.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Right below, there’s an arrow pointing down, along with Andy’s ‘and take these’ scribble. Damn - did I really take a six hour nap? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Is that even considered a nap at that point?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As I make a reach forward towards the glass, I feel the right side of the bed shift slightly. Glancing over, I frown when I spot Andy fast asleep. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you kidding me?” I grumble under my breath. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That’s also when I realize that we’re not the only two in the room. Vic’s soft snoring comes from below me. Peeking over the edge of the bed, I spot her fast asleep on the makeshift bed the two of them cobbled up together.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>And</span>
  </em>
  <span>, she has the bear.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You two are ridiculous,” I mumble, returning my attention to the nightstand. I make a reach for my phone, originally to take note of the time, but that’s when I see your message.</span>
</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>Can we please talk?</span>
    </em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>
  <span>You wrote a few hours ago, now. I stare at the text, biting down on my lip as I narrow my eyes at the simple, yet loaded question. With a heavy sigh, I stare up towards the ceiling. The glow from the screen was just enough to still make me feel woozy.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And besides, us? Talk? Are we even capable of that anymore? Doesn’t every little thing always end up in an argument? A disagreement? A fight? And what could we even talk about now? How would I manage to fuck it up this time?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Andy also told me to give you a bit of space - that you were upset (reasonably so) when you left this afternoon. Is responding not giving you that space? Is the fact that </span>
  <em>
    <span>you’re</span>
  </em>
  <span> the one reaching out to me kinda negates that?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Turning the brightest down, I go straight back to our conversation and immediately betray my own negative thought spiral.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Yes.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Do you want to come over in the morning, or…?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Your response is nearly instant.</span>
</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>I do not want to wait until morning. </span>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>I am afraid I will lose my nerve and I do not want that.</span>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>Can I text you now?</span>
    </em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>
  <span>My heart starts pounding loudly in my ears, just starting to beckon another splitting headache. My throat grows instantly dry as anxiety and panic, hand-in-fucking-hand, begin to weight me down. What do you mean lose your nerve? And </span>
  <em>
    <span>now</span>
  </em>
  <span>? This really couldn’t wait until after a sleepless, dread-filled night?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This was it, wasn’t it? I’ve officially fucked up too many times and you’re done. I don’t blame you. Sure. Let’s go for it. Let’s rip this god damn bandaid off once and for all.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Yes</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>I love you, Maya.</span>
    </em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>
  <span>Suddenly, I find myself releasing the breath I didn’t even realize I was holding and quickly, with shaky hands, I reply - your ellipses be damned. I want you to know before whatever thought that follows that we are on the same page. That the feeling is waaay beyond mutual. I hope that you can believe me.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I love you, too, Carina.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>But I do not know how to handle this anymore.</span>
    </em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>
  <span>My heart sinks as your written words rip into my chest, every single one of them. Fuck, fuck, FUCK.</span>
</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>But I desperately WANT to.</span>
    </em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>
  <span>… I resist the urge to throw my phone across the room. Holy hell. I am usually one for theme park rides, but even this is approaching my limits. Unclenching my jaw, the tension in my head lessens just a little.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>This is all my fault.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Literally.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>We both have blame to share.</span>
    </em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>
  <em>
    <span>Do we though?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>You made it very clear that you did not want to talk about your father, starting just before the spaghetti fundraising dinner the night before. I should have dropped it, but instead I kept pushing. I went too far and I am sorry.</span>
    </em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>
  <span>I reread your message over twice - thrice over, frowning to myself as I shake my head. You don’t have to apologize. That was all my fault.</span>
</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>Maya…?</span>
    </em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’m still here.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>But… </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>You were right - about everything - and I refused to see that.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I should have listened to you.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>But, see, I should have also listened to YOU, though. I do not think that things would not have gotten out of hand, if I had.</span>
    </em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>
  <span>“Nooo,” I catch myself saying. The bed shifts slightly and I take a quick peek to my left. Andy’s still asleep. Good. I didn’t want to try to explain all this to her while also trying to give you the attention you deserve right now. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stay quiet, Bishop, I chastise myself silently.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>No, don’t, Carina. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Don’t try to share that blame here.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>It is the truth, no? </span>
    </em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>
  <span>No, not the truth. Definitely not the truth. Far from the truth, actually. Have I actually led you to believe that it was somehow? Is this how you were trying to make sense of it all? That you must have had some responsibility behind me being a complete dumbass?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And that’s what it was. No sugarcoating. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>My actions are MY actions; I’m the one responsible for them. What I did, /I/ did through no fault of your own.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>And my actions were so fucking wrong. I never should have done what I did; I never should have retaliated like that. I wasn’t thinking. And I just needed - I don’t even know, but excuses don’t matter. It doesn’t change anything.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>And I’m rambling. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Terribly.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I hurt you, Carina. I intentionally hurt you because I couldn’t see the truth. I didn’t want to see the truth - that for my entire life…</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck, I don’t even want to put it into words. I’m still struggling to accept it.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Complete word vomit and the inability to say what I really should put into words, I know, but I can’t. I understand the concept - I understand the circumstances. I struggle to put them.. together with my own experience, but I know that’s what happened. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I don’t even know if it makes complete sense to myself at this point.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And you want to stop me in the middle of it all, but I keep going. I push through and ignore those damn ellipses that only serve to cause more dreaded anxiety and panic.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I don’t think I have ever texted this much in my entire life. Everything with you prior has always been short and sweet, in every sense. We’ve definitely preferred phone and video calls. Though, means of in-person communication hadn’t been working in our favor.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Too much emotion; not enough listening. At least this seems to be going well so far? And here’s hoping I didn’t just manage to curse us.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But knowing the luck I’ve been having..</span>
</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>You do not have to. </span>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>I understand. </span>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>You already explained yourself.</span>
    </em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>
  <em>
    <span>As hard as it is for me, I want to be open and honest: I’m afraid that you’re telling me that for the sake of telling me. I don’t want that. I really do want to prove what I said to you.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I love you so much.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>My last message is met with a pause; there are no sudden ellipses. Who knew my feelings for those three damn flashing dots would have changed so fast. Did you fall asleep? Come to the realization that maybe this isn’t worth it?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Or were you doing the probably obvious and processing what I just told you? </span>
</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>Maya, I am trying my best. It is all I can do, but I feel that my best - that my good intentions are not enough, whether the resistance is from myself or from you.</span>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>If we are to continue being honest, then I must admit that I am feeling so conflicted.</span>
    </em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>
  <span>And you have every right to feel such a way, Carina. You do. I cut into your stream of texts with a quick message of my own. I just need you to know and it could not wait a few moments for you to finish your thoughts.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I’m sorry.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>Despite what you did, I am still so head over shoes in love with you. And I tried to move passed it, but I cannot.</span>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>I also do not want to move pass this. I do not want to move pass us.</span>
    </em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>
  <span>A small smile tugs on the corner of my lips for a multitude of reasons. I do not want to move pass us either, so I’m glad we can agree. I want this to work and it will </span>
  <em>
    <span>require</span>
  </em>
  <span> a lot of it - work, I mean, but I want to put it in. I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>going</span>
  </em>
  <span> to.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But I smile mostly for your incorrect idiomatic expression, which I choose to not correct. I like your version better, anyway. Heels be damned.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>...though, I think the expression is not even about shoes to begin with..? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That’s not important right now, Bishop.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Get your shit together.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Focus.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I don’t either - far from it, I swear.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Carina, I want to keep my promise to you.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I want to prove to you that you can trust me.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>That you can love me. That I deserve your love.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I’m glad to be home from the hospital and not dealing with monitors. I could only imagine the field day I would have been causing the nursing staff with this. My heart is racing. It does every time I mention the word love. I’m not used to it, not used to confessing such deep, honest emotion. I feel too vulnerable, too exposed, and too, well, weak (as much as I hate myself for saying it). </span>
</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>It is not the love part that I doubt.</span>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>You keep pushing me away. Intentional or not.</span>
    </em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>
  <span>You’re the first person who has ever managed to put a crack on the walls I’ve unintentionally built. You’re the first person I’ve given this whole relationship thing a go with. You’re the first person I’ve ever completely let in and I don’t think I was.. ready? I wasn’t ready, or expecting, someone to help me with my problems, Carina. I’ve always handled them myself.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I wasn’t expecting.. a partner?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I can’t bring myself to tell you any of this, though. It’s too much; it’s getting too late; and I can’t be the only person too tired. Before you can continue on with your text thread, I interrupt with an apology that I owe:</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I’m sorry for all the pushing.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>And there, I know I have some blame. I should not have lied to you.</span>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>I should have handled that better than I did, but I, too, got caught up in the moment and did not make the best decision.</span>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>For that, I am the one who is sorry.</span>
    </em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>
  <span>The fact that you lied still stings, that much I can’t really ignore - it’s still too fresh and I’m struggling to accept the reality and the truth of the situation, but at the very least I can accept your apology.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Because Andy was right. As much as it </span>
  <em>
    <span>does</span>
  </em>
  <span> suck, the dark reality of our job is that.. we’re not going to be able to save everyone, as hard as we try - as much of a risk we decide to take.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It sucks that sometimes.. sometimes the outcome is not worth the risk, but the outcome </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> the outcome regardless.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Just gotta deal with it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And it </span>
  <em>
    <span>sucks</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>God, sometimes - most of the time now - I wish we could just start everything over.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>How did we get here?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Don’t answer that.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I know exactly how we got here.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s because I’m an idiot.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>Stop calling yourself such things.</span>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>It is not nice.</span>
    </em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>
  <em>
    <span>But THAT’S the truth.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>That is not a truth I am willing to accept.</span>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>And don’t you dare say anything about “deserving.” I will not hear it.</span>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>Or read it, rather.</span>
    </em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>
  <span>Smiling at your last message, I make a self promise to be better since putting myself down in such a matter bothers you. I give the screen a half nod, momentarily forgetting that, well, you wouldn’t be able to see any of that. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Even with all this sleeping, I’m still deliriously tired.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Okay. Then, I won’t say/write it either.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I’m sorry for today. I’m sorry for what I said.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>I didn’t mean it - not a word. I was angry.</span>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>I know. I’m sorry, too.</span>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>All of this has run us both pretty thin, hasn’t it?</span>
    </em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>
  <em>
    <span>Yeah, the timing’s all my fault.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I’ll schedule my life crisis further apart next time.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>May I please request ‘none for the foreseeable future?’</span>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>For all our sakes?</span>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>Please?</span>
    </em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>
  <em>
    <span>I will do my best, promise.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>Grazie mille.</span>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>Appreciate it. Truly.</span>
    </em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>
  <span>Chuckling to myself at the rather morbid idea of penning in one’s own literal life trauma, I fight off a yawn, wanting to keep talking to you. In another reality, one where I’m able to hold my god damn tongue, this conversation wouldn’t have been necessary and </span>
  <em>
    <span>you’d</span>
  </em>
  <span> be the one next to me in bed instead of the weird sleeping arrangement I find myself in.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At the very least, Vic could have allowed me the firefighter teddy bear that she had gifted </span>
  <em>
    <span>me</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>Thank you, also, for talking to me tonight. There was a lot I wanted to get off my chest. </span>
    </em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>
  <em>
    <span>I mean, thank YOU, too? I.. honestly didn’t think we were going to.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Talk - for clarification.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Not how everything blew up this afternoon.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>With the way I feel for you, Maya, I have to believe that this is all going to be worth it. I have never felt this way toward another person before. This is all so new.</span>
    </em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>
  <em>
    <span>For me, too.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I’m going to learn to be better - for you, Carina.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>No, bella, you’re going to learn to be better for yourself.</span>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>Because that is how you will be better for us.</span>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>Listen, I am incredibly tired. Sleep has eluded me the last few days.</span>
    </em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>
  <em>
    <span>Sorry, I didn’t mean to keep you up this late.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>No, please, I was the one who asked if we could talk.</span>
    </em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>
  <em>
    <span>I hope you get some sleep.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I wish you were here. I know how much you hate sleeping alone.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Or, at the very least, I wish you were the one with FireFighter Teddy.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>Well, if I can’t have him, at least you do.</span>
    </em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>
  <em>
    <span>Vic stole him from me while I was napping.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>..what? </span>
    </em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>
  <em>
    <span>I know. You think you know a person.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Good night.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>Buonanotte, bella.</span>
    </em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>
  <span>Staring at your last message, a few minutes pass by as I secretly hope that maybe there would be another, but you’re true to your word. I place my phone back onto the nightstand and take the meds that have been patiently waiting for me before lulling myself back to sleep.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In the morning, I learn that the quantity and quality of sleep are not the same thing. My body aches and screams to no longer be on this damn bed. With help, I try to get myself moving; I try to stretch the parts of my body that allow themselves to move without much protest, but as the majority of movements make me wince in some shape or form, I realize just how </span>
  <em>
    <span>long</span>
  </em>
  <span> the next couple of months were going to be.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>To say I was ‘grumpy’ would be an understatement, but that is what Vic concludes as she gives up the bear once I’m sitting on the couch after breakfast. The two of them settle near me and for the rest of the morning, they help keep me entertained as we watch a couple of movies. We were twenty minutes into our third feature when there’s a knock at the door.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Shift change,” Vic announces as Andy heads to answer it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Shift change…?” I repeat.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She nods, “Text us when you need us next - but also maybe.. don’t screw this up again?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Screw this up again?” I ask, trying to follow Vic with my eyes as she also disappears into the hallway. “What does that mean?” I call after her, but she doesn’t answer. “Guys?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“They left.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At the sound of your voice, any linger ache of pain vanishes. Heart fluttering, I try to convince a small part of me that believes that maybe I’m just hearing things. When I see you take a step into the living room, all small forms of doubt disappear.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I can’t believe you’re here. I didn’t think you’d come over. I had already accepted that I was forcing Vic and Andy to spend another day off with me.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This - this is much better (sorry, guys).</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hi,” I say breathlessly and you smile.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hi,” you repeat, setting two brown paper bags on the coffee table before taking a seat next to me. When I stare at you quizzically, you reach into one of the paper bags and pull out two bottles: one white wine and the other whiskey. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So,” you begin, turning to me. “Let’s start over?”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>The internet was out for most of the day, so.. this happened as a result. It's like the universe wants me to finish this fic before the start of the semester next month.</p>
<p>Also, sorry I'm back with another weirdly formatted chapter. It looked way better in Google docs. I did my best :(</p>
<p>Come sempre, grazie and I'll see y'all in the next chapter :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Chapter 16</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>“You’ve known me all of five minutes and you’re already teasing me? You haven’t even asked for my name,” Carina scoffs, fetching two glasses from the cupboard.</p><p>“We’re actually doing this?”</p><p>Nodding, Carina comes back to the living room and places the glasses on the coffee table.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>You know, that evening when we first met? I </span>
  <em>
    <span>almost</span>
  </em>
  <span> didn’t even go to Joe's that night; I </span>
  <em>
    <span>almost</span>
  </em>
  <span> decided to just drink at home - it would’ve been cheaper and I figured the company would’ve been the same. Me, alone. Our chance meeting only happened out of a sense of righteous pride and ego.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I didn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>need</span>
  </em>
  <span> anyone else’s company to enjoy a drink at the bar and after that camping trip (we stood our ground against a damn black bear and a man still has his nose today because of me), I sure as hell deserved top shelf.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And I was going to enjoy the hell out of that whiskey all by myself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, you showed up and ordered your glass of white wine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That’s when everything changed - that moment when you decided to take a seat next to a complete stranger at a bar.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unintentionally, since we lost complete track of time that night, we closed out the bar, trading stories back and forth. From the beginning, you were easy to talk to; you listened with such attention; and you were a smooth talker - idiomatic expressions be damned (though your versions were more adorable; they always are).</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You admitted that you didn’t intend to stay out so late, that you were just hoping for a glass of wine to unwind after work before heading home, but you were glad with how the evening turned out. You had an early shift in the morning and had to get going.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Which, I ridiculously assumed (looking back now) that you were trying to brush me off, that maybe we didn’t interpret the evening differently, but then we lingered in the parking lot, still talking for another hour. You ended up leaving in a panic once you realized you were probably only going to get three hours of sleep.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The following day, I dropped off a cup of coffee at the hospital to apologize. I wrote my number on the sleeve - in the sudden chaos of your departure, I forgot to give it to you the night before. That tidbit kept </span>
  <em>
    <span>me</span>
  </em>
  <span> up until sunrise.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A couple of hours later, you texted, thanking for the coffee and asking for a second round of drinks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That second round of drinks was delayed by a blizzard, but it </span>
  <em>
    <span>did</span>
  </em>
  <span> eventually happen and we </span>
  <em>
    <span>did</span>
  </em>
  <span> get to know each other more that night. Actually, we got to know each other </span>
  <em>
    <span>pretty well</span>
  </em>
  <span> that night.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As well as the following morning.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then you - being </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> - showed up to my office that afternoon with homemade lasagna.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And me - being </span>
  <em>
    <span>me</span>
  </em>
  <span> - pushed you away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>From the very beginning, I was pushing you away, Carina. From the very beginning, I was afraid of commitment, of seeing where this could eventually lead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because from the very beginning, this felt different. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You</span>
  </em>
  <span> were different.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And different scares me. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Or, at least, it used to.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Different is not routine, nor is it order, or part of an established structure. It is an upheaval, or a disarray, part of a greater disruption. It has been an upheaval of a routine so set in its toxic ways; it is a disarrayed order that has caused harm for far too long; and it is the greatest disruption of an established, yet mismanaged structured way of life.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You showed me that </span>
  <em>
    <span>different </span>
  </em>
  <span>could be </span>
  <em>
    <span>good</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And you are </span>
  <em>
    <span>so</span>
  </em>
  <span> good, Carina.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As I stare at the two bottles now on the coffee table, I can’t help but laugh lightly at your attention to detail: you even made sure to get the </span>
  <em>
    <span>correct</span>
  </em>
  <span> bottles - and what I was drinking that night, hell, it </span>
  <em>
    <span>wasn’t</span>
  </em>
  <span> cheap.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And, shit, it hits me suddenly. Frowning, I tilt my head to the side and narrow my eyes before looking over to you. “Can.. I even drink with.. </span>
  <em>
    <span>everything</span>
  </em>
  <span> I’m taking?” I ask.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not at all,” you instantly respond. “But the gesture was absolutely necessary,” you add, scooting onto the edge of the couch to grab both bottles to be placed back into their original bag. You stand up and make your way into the kitchen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Absolutely?” I repeat after you, raising my eyebrows. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ve known me all of five minutes and you’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>already</span>
  </em>
  <span> teasing me? You haven’t even asked for my name,” you scoff, fetching two glasses from the cupboard.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re actually doing this?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nodding, you come back to the living room and place the glasses on the coffee table.</span>
  <span> You reach into the second bag and rummage around its contents before pulling out a bag of potato chips and a canister of mixed nuts (bar snack food - you weren’t kidding about the attention to detail), along with a bottle of blood orange Italian soda. Nothing Italian about it, you once explained to me while we were doing a quick grocery run for a small home dinner, but the blood orange flavor made you linger. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blood oranges were your favorite. Your grandfather - your </span>
  <em>
    <span>nonno</span>
  </em>
  <span> - had a few trees that you would help yourself to whenever you visited. Regular oranges paled in comparison, both figuratively and literally.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The way you were smiling at a random bottle in the middle of the grocery store, recalling fond memories, was enough for me to grab it and put it in our handbasket. Worried that we might not even like it, you insisted on putting it back, but I, in turn, insisted on at least trying it. If we ended up not liking it, </span>
  <em>
    <span>someone</span>
  </em>
  <span> on the team would definitely take care of it if I brought it to work; it wouldn’t go to waste and we still had a bottle of wine and sparkling water for dinner.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But we did end up liking it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It regularly makes appearances on our grocery lists.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We </span>
  <em>
    <span>are</span>
  </em>
  <span> actually doing this,” you reassure, twisting off the cap and pouring us matching glasses. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When you offer me one, I reach out to take it. As my fingers brush against yours and you give me that small, sweet smile, my heart skips a beat. Okay. We’re doing this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maintain eye contact, I give you a half nod. Feeling more than a tiny bit ridiculous, I ask, “So, uh - what’s your name..?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Your reassuring smile grows slightly as you pick up your own glass. “Doctor Carina DeLuca and I am from Italy,” you reply with such confidence. “OB/GYN at Grey-Sloan Memorial Hospital.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah, yeah, Grey-Sloan - just did some time in there,” I find myself automatically retorting. “Terrible armchairs.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So I hear,” you quip with a playful glare as you slowly shake your head at me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh! And there’s this rather hot OB who will sneak you fried bar food from the outside,” I add. “Maybe you know her..?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll keep an eye out for her,” you nearly snort.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a cheeky grin of my own (come on, you gotta be proud of that), I bit back a laugh before.. I guess, reintroducing myself per your request. “Captain Maya Bishop of Station 19 - and I’ve spent my entire life in Seattle,” I state.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As you extend your glass out towards me, I mimic your action and meet your glass with a little clink before we both take a small sip.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, umm,” I continue, searching for the next question to ask. I blank. I settle for the first time that pops into my mind and, I gotta admit, it’s not my best work. I’m not proud of it, but I </span>
  <em>
    <span>am </span>
  </em>
  <span>on the spot, still on pain meds, and in a rather bizarre situation. “Come here often, Doctor Carina DeLuca?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You give me a little shoulder shrug as you lean back into the cushions of the couch, crossing your leg over the other. “These days? No, not really,” you reveal. “I used to visit my girlfriend frequently, though.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I watch you nod slowly before taking another small sip. “You see, she’s this.. incredibly, very well in shape firefighter - very muscular and </span>
  <em>
    <span>very</span>
  </em>
  <span> into fitness,” you explain.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Very?” I mock.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Very</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” you stress, nodding a bit more quickly now. “So much so, that there was this one time where I tried to get her to come back to bed one morning - it was way too early to even be awake on a Sunday.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, I remember this,” I grin behind my drink, fighting back a small laugh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And could you </span>
  <em>
    <span>believe</span>
  </em>
  <span> that she was on the floor, next to the bed, doing push downs-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“-Ups. Push ups,” I correct.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rolling your eyes, you wave off the correction. “Whatever - point being, no amount of </span>
  <em>
    <span>begging</span>
  </em>
  <span> would get her back into bed with me. She </span>
  <em>
    <span>had</span>
  </em>
  <span> to finish her morning routine.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s not exactly how I remember it, though - </span>
  <em>
    <span>someone</span>
  </em>
  <span> decided to play a little dirty,” I point out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You shrug your shoulders, “How my tank top and bra </span>
  <em>
    <span>suddenly</span>
  </em>
  <span> ended up on the floor in front of her, we’ll never know - not that it worked, which I am </span>
  <em>
    <span>still</span>
  </em>
  <span> a little offended by: push downs were more important.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Push </span>
  <em>
    <span>ups.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Up, down, left, right - whatever the case, I was half naked in bed and </span>
  <em>
    <span>ignored</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” you recount. “So, I did the next logical thing, clearly.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Through a laugh, I manage to recall, “You climbed on top of me, latched on, and just deadweighted.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Si’!</span>
  </em>
  <span> She was </span>
  <em>
    <span>supposed</span>
  </em>
  <span> to have </span>
  <em>
    <span>collapsed</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” you point out. “Not be able to </span>
  <em>
    <span>continue</span>
  </em>
  <span> without </span>
  <em>
    <span>any</span>
  </em>
  <span> problems.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Without </span>
  <em>
    <span>any</span>
  </em>
  <span> problems?” I fake gasp. “Do you know how hard it was to keep going like that knowing that your bare chest was pressed against my back?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sounds like we both had problems then: do you know how </span>
  <em>
    <span>hot</span>
  </em>
  <span> it is to witness how strong your girlfriend is like that first hand?” you ask. “Both sexually frustrated on an early Sunday morning.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I snort into my glass and nearly choke on the fizzy drink. In the midst of a light coughing fit, I end up spilling slightly onto my shirt. You momentarily take the glass from me and allow me to catch my breath before asking if I am okay. As best as I could, I try to give you a reassuring nod as I reach back for my glass which you hesitate to hand back over.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She sounds a bit frustrating,” I comment, clearing my throat for a final time before returning to the drink.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She.. can be,” you admit, slowly, narrowing your eyes slightly at me as you settle back into your nestled couch cushions and try to pick your next words carefully. “But.. that aside, she’s also.. </span>
  <em>
    <span>incredibly</span>
  </em>
  <span> caring with a heart so capable of love and kindness. She’s just not.. used to being so open and free with it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You read me like a book, a story that I have been turning a blind eye to.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Swallowing hard, I look down at my lap. “I…” my voice trails off. The couch shifts as you move and there is a soft clank of glass meeting wood, but I can’t bring myself to turn to you, as if an invisible weight is holding me down in place. Maybe there’s a bit of truth to what you said. Maybe if I was used to being open and free, I wouldn’t feel like this: frozen in place, a deer in headlights.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Your hand rests on my forearm and I don’t pull away. “Take your time,” you say gently.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“When, uh, I was in high school,” I try to speak again. I pause for a moment, frowning as memories flooded back - some that I haven’t thought about in a real long time and some that I thought had vanished through deep suppression. I shake my head at myself in disbelief, aghast at how deep and for how long this has been going on, but I didn’t see it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But would I have even been capable of seeing it back then?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There was this girl on my track team -  it was so long ago, I don’t even remember her name anymore,” I confess. “But.. we’d spend a lot of time together - outside of track, I mean. We’d hang out after school and after practice. She’d come over and we’d do homework together. I.. </span>
  <em>
    <span>really </span>
  </em>
  <span>liked her - first person I ever liked like </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span>. She was even my first kiss.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hmm,” you hum, listening.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“During one of our races, she twisted her ankle - she went down running right next to me, actually. Without even thinking, I went to check if she was okay. I came in second place as a result - which I thought was.. fine, given the circumstances,” I explain. “My dad didn’t think so. I ended up completely shutting her out. I don’t know the first thing about kindness.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As your thumb gently messages my forearm, you wait for a moment of silence - a sign that I’m done - before you start speaking. “Your first instinct was to help your friend,” you point out, voice ever so soft. “Your first instinct </span>
  <em>
    <span>was</span>
  </em>
  <span> kindness.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But then I pushed her away.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Learned behavior,” you counter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I keep pushing the people who matter away,” I reiterate, finally forcing myself to look up at you. When I immediately meet your gaze, panic strikes like a lighting bolt, but I try to maintain eye contact. I try to keep looking at you. I </span>
  <em>
    <span>want</span>
  </em>
  <span> you to know that you matter so god damn much to me and that I’m an idiot for ever making you believe otherwise.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You scoot a tiny bit closer to me; your hand trails down my arm and our fingers intertwine. With your free hand, you grab my half-empty glass and set it down on the coffee table before returning your attention back to me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And the thing about learned behavior is that.. we can hopefully unlearn them,” you say. “With the right help.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The right help,” I repeat with a small, dry laugh. Now, I </span>
  <em>
    <span>have</span>
  </em>
  <span> to look away - at anything other than you. I know you don’t look down on me in pity. I know you come from a place of compassion when I force myself to be honest and open with you, but it’s hard. “My whole life, I had to fend for myself. I had to do </span>
  <em>
    <span>everything</span>
  </em>
  <span> for myself and.. I think I got a bit too used to that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Softly, you give my hand a little squeeze. The corners of my lips tug into a light smile that quickly fades away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are the very first person I’ve ever let in,” I quietly admit. So quietly, that you even lean in mid-sentence. “You’re the first person I’ve ever been in a relationship with and, knowing what I know now, I don’t know if I was ready and that’s not fair to you, but I meant what I said: I </span>
  <em>
    <span>will</span>
  </em>
  <span> spend every day trying to earn your trust back, though I feel like I’ve dug myself further into the hole.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When you don’t respond, the damn anxious feeling returns, as if I accidentally said something wrong. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Did</span>
  </em>
  <span> I say something wrong? Afraid I’d only confirm my own suspicions, I once again force myself to reckon with the consequences of my actions and I turn to look at you. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A bit of relief washes over me when I realize that you’re still looking back at me, that you’re smiling ever so faintly, and your eyes are glistening.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No, everything is still okay.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>We are still okay.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And </span>
  <em>
    <span>I</span>
  </em>
  <span> will do better, too - and don’t say there’s nothing for me to do!” you immediately cut me off before I could get a word in and tell you otherwise. “This is my first go at a real relationship, too, you know - there’s room for improvement on both sides, no?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Frowning, I furrow my eyebrows in slight confusion and tilt my head to the side.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m going to learn to listen better,” you affirm. “If you are going to take responsibility for your actions, then I am for my own as well: I do not want to push either. So, no more. No more from either one of us.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No more,” I repeat with a half nod. “Though, something tells me that it’s not going to be as easy as that, huh?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, it definitely will not be,” you agree almost instantaneously. “But, I think, if we are on the same page, then perhaps that is a pretty good start.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, definitely a start,” I concur, making a reach towards the coffee table, knowing full well that I would never be able to reach my drink in such a state.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Leaning forward, you make a grab for the glass and return it to me. You also point to the bag of potato chips. With a small shrug of the shoulders, I give you a small nod - sure why not? After opening the bag for me, you hand it over. Grabbing a couple, I tilt the bag towards you, knowing full well that you’ll go for the mixed nuts instead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>More chips for me. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In silence, we pick at our respective snacks. No one says a word. The silence, it’s not.. it’s not what I would call comfortable; no, we were once very capable of sitting in silence with each other - on this very couch, too. There were plenty of afternoons lounging, you with your books as I scroll through various news articles on my phone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This was not that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There were still unanswered questions lingering in the air.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Questions that I wanted to ask, but am uncertain of phrasing - I don’t want to accidentally come off too strong, or offend. You’ve already tried to guide me through it because it’s one you’re familiar with, although it backfired in epic proportions, so now you’re just trying to walk alongside me, I guess, with your hand at the ready, if I choose to take it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“When did you know?” I finally ask, completely out of the blue.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Perplexed, you look up from the canister. “I.. don’t think I know what you are talking about, Maya,” you reply with a small frown.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Right. Details would be a good thing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Before the spaghetti dinner, in my office, you told me that it took you a long time to realize that things weren’t okay,” I explain. “When did you finally realize..?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah.” You catch on, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear as you stare off into space, towards the fireplace, as you collect your thoughts for a moment. That’s when it dawned on me: every little aspect of your life that you’ve shared with me.. it’s always been the good memories - sweet moments shared with your baby brother during the short amount of time you shared during your childhood, amusing anecdotes about your school days, and lovely stories about various family members (particularly your grandparents).</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Never the bad; you’ve kept the bad to yourself, only ever mentioning that you had a rough go at it with your dad, too, but.. I think you only ever brought that up because of my own issues. You were just trying to relate.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It is..  hard,” you speak up, turning back to me. “Because now, I am able to look back at my life and I can clearly see all the signs that I missed growing up, but I did not know any better at the time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You look back towards the fireplace, eyes narrowing slightly as you recall, “But I think the first time I realized something wasn’t right, I was in high school, maybe? Perhaps even the end of middle school. Though, it wasn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>me</span>
  </em>
  <span>, really. My first kiss was also with a girl.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hmm.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hmm,” you mimic, glancing at me with a smirk. You follow up with a small, light laugh before growing serious once more. “But it was also interrupted by my father and he did not exactly like what he saw. So, he turned around, slammed my bedroom shut, and.. well, we were not entirely able to make out the yelling - but it was all things that I was incredibly used to. I had no reason to really think twice about it until I saw how scared and concerned my friend was.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And that’s when.. you figured..?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nodding, you continue, “I mean, that’s when I started to put the pieces together - that the yelling, passive aggressive berating, and so on were not normal.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What did you do?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a heavy sigh, you shrug your shoulders, “I.. continued to walk on eggshells, but I got better at it. At least I knew the situation I found myself in. I could not walk from it; I could not leave, but at least I knew how to better emotionally protect myself, if that makes any sense.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Frowning, I ask, “But.. why..?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It was also around the same time I learned why my mother left,” you answer, gazing down at your lap. I watch as you pour a small amount of mixed nuts onto the lid of the canister. You begin to move them around, sort them into their respective groups. You’re giving yourself something to do - something to distract yourself. “That </span>
  <em>
    <span>Papa’</span>
  </em>
  <span> was sick, as much as he tries to deny it. That he has episodes of mania, that it was an episode that caused their divorce. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Mamma</span>
  </em>
  <span> could not handle it anymore-” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t have to tell me,” I interrupt suddenly. “If you don’t want to.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You offer me a soft, reassuring smile. “I want to be able to tell you everything, Maya. This is not pushing, I promise, </span>
  <em>
    <span>bella</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” you say. “But no one’s life is all roses and flowers.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Roses and flowers,” I repeat with a slight grin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I refuse to correct myself - the Italian version is better,” you state, standing your ground. “You can keep your sunshine.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>You</span>
  </em>
  <span> are my sunshine,” I counter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sudden statement stops you in your tracks, rendering you speechless. You stare at me for a second, open your mouth to say something, but nothing comes. Instead, you smile widely and shake your head at me, impressed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And I’m not going to lie: I </span>
  <em>
    <span>am</span>
  </em>
  <span> a tiny bit proud of myself for that one.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shrugging my shoulders, I point out, “Hey, we’re starting over, right? Doesn’t that also mean I gotta start the flirting all over again?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Sei proprio ridicola</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” you laugh. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Got what I want: to make your laugh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To make you momentarily forget what we are talking about since none of it is what you would call easy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clearing your throat, you regain your composure and a ghost of your smile lingers are you continue, “But when I finally caught up as to what happened, I took on the role as my father’s keeper for everyone’s sake - to make sure he could not hurt any more people-” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hang on, what..?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The final straw for my mother was when he operated on seven people in a row without rest or without food,” you explain. “In his manic state, he ended up killing four of those people - he never should have been able to continue practicing medicine. In all honesty, he should have been arrested as a result.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Carina..” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Mamma</span>
  </em>
  <span> did her best to convince him to seek help, but he was very adamant - there was nothing wrong with him. That did not change the fact that four people were dead. So, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Mamma</span>
  </em>
  <span> left with baby Andrea in tow,” you proceed. “She wanted to take both of us, but he would not allow it. So, I stayed in Italy and Andrea came here in the U.S.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You didn’t get a say?” I ask, eyebrows furrowing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You shake your head. “I was eight - maybe nine? What kind of say would I have had? I did not understand what was going on even,” you reply. “I ended up growing up with a bit of resentment towards my mother. We did not have the best relationship through most of my young adult life, especially when I found out that </span>
  <em>
    <span>Papa’</span>
  </em>
  <span> has an undiagnosed bipolar disorder, which is the reason behind everything. Things had the potential to get better though.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Watching you mix your organized snack and rearrange them back into their specific groups, I conclude that maybe now it’s my turn to reach out. I place my hand on your knee. A small smile appears just as quickly as it vanishes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This is hard - for both of us, I know.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s also the most talking we’ve done in weeks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And even if it </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> hard, if it helps us understand each other better, then the hard is ultimately worth it, isn’t it?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Right?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You tell me of your mom’s trip back to Italy in order to visit you during some point of med school - that had that point, you really hadn’t spoken to her in a long while (quick tell phone calls and letters that went unanswered). Seeing her again after so long just melted away so many of those harsh feelings you had been harboring and that you two had started talking - really talking again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And you thought you were going to have the opportunity to keep talking, but she </span>
  <em>
    <span>literally</span>
  </em>
  <span> passed away the following day.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My inability to move nor do much for myself for that matter has left me frustrated since coming home from the hospital, but that amount of frustration did not compare to this moment where I knew I would not be able to pull you into my arms, to hold you. Hell, I couldn’t even lean over without something or another aching.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“All the signs were there: the trouble speaking, the lack of coordination, the sudden severe headache,” you list. “I missed them all.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But you also weren’t looking for them - you can also explain all that with having taken a </span>
  <em>
    <span>very</span>
  </em>
  <span> long flight,” I try to point out. “You can’t put that blame on yourself, Carina.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tipping the mixed nuts back into the canister, you shrug your shoulders slightly and secure the lid. “Yes, I know, but I have,” you murmur. “Point being, I know just how quickly and unfairly your life can change. How instantly a person can no longer be a part of your story and there’s nothing you can do about it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I want to be a part of yours for as long as I can,” I state. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Weird</span>
  </em>
  <span> thing to say to someone you </span>
  <em>
    <span>just</span>
  </em>
  <span> met, though.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Throwing your head back, you laugh, abandoning my glass and yours once and for all on the coffee table. “Thank you, </span>
  <em>
    <span>bella, </span>
  </em>
  <span>for humoring me,” you say with a grin as you scoot over, closer towards me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This was nice - exactly what we needed, I think,” I admit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You lean in slightly more. “You know what else we need, I think? If you’ll let me?” you ask in a voice just above a whisper as your eyes lock with mine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As you draw yourself towards me, my heart races and my mouth dries, making it damn nearly impossible to say a word. “Hmm?” I pathetically hum in response.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Dammi un bacio</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gently, and to the best of my limited ability, I reach out to cup your face in my hands, pulling you as close as I can. It’s when our lips meet for the first time in </span>
  <em>
    <span>ages</span>
  </em>
  <span> - at first soft and tender, but sweet kisses lead into ones slightly hungrier - it is in that moment that I think..</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That I </span>
  <em>
    <span>know</span>
  </em>
  <span> that we’ll be okay.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I figured most of you would have waited this chapter to end in a kiss, sooo here y'all go :)</p><p>This is going to be the last Maya POV chapter. It's been a lot of fun exploring her character from this perspective -- I hope I did her justice. I hope you all enjoyed it. Thanks for all the feedback, kudos, and comments. </p><p>See you in the next chapter &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. Chapter 17</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>This is exactly the moment Carina has been yearning for and dreaming to return to: alone - just the two of them, in a sea of kisses. This exact moment? Carina honestly did not believe she would ever get to experience this moment ever again. She knows now that Maya is safe - that she is okay and that she will recover in time (that maybe even they will recover in time), but the immense fear Carina felt only a few days ago, that maybe they were facing the unspeakable, that they would not be able to see each other again.. </p>
<p>To have this sweet moment again, Carina is beyond thankful.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Framing your face with my own hands, I softly caress your cheek with my thumb as I lean forward again, back in for another one of your deeply longed for kisses. As I gently nibble and suck on your lower lip attentively, I hear your breath hitch and then you gasp, surprised. Unable to control myself and, well, feeling just the tiniest bit victorious (did I just take your breath away…?), a small giggle escapes me as I smile against you. I have missed this in ways I did not think possible. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And I have missed you, too,  Maya Bishop.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>So </span>
  </em>
  <span>much.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>An indescribable amount of longing..</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And as much as you have pushed and tried to distance yourself, physically and emotionally.. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As much as I wanted to literally run away..</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As much as you have hurt me.. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This is exactly the moment I have been yearning for and dreaming to return to: alone - just the two of us, as close as we could get, in a sea of kisses we each longed for. This exact moment? I honestly did not believe I would ever get to experience this moment ever again. I know now that you are safe - that you are okay and that you will recover in time (that maybe even </span>
  <em>
    <span>we</span>
  </em>
  <span> will recover in time), but the immense fear I felt only a few days ago, that maybe we were facing the unspeakable, that we would not be able to see each other again.. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>To have this sweet moment again, I am beyond thankful.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Resting my forehead against yours, an unwanted but necessary pause gives us both the chance to catch our breath for a second, but even then you sneak in tiny, soft pecks - have you missed this just as much as I have, Maya?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You do not need to answer my unasked questions; you show me instead.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Ti amo</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” I murmur so quietly that I am unsure if you even hear, nearly brushing against you as I speak.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Me too,” you automatically respond without a second thought - an instant reaction. I can almost feel and taste your words against my lips as you utter back an even gentler, “Ti amo, too.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You have told me ‘I love you’ a few times now and with each utterance, as it still feels so incredibly new, it makes my heart flutter every time, but </span>
  <em>
    <span>this</span>
  </em>
  <span>? To hear your feelings - our shared mutual feelings it were, as short of a declaration that it is, in my native language? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>My </span>
  <em>
    <span>own</span>
  </em>
  <span> language? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>My heart does not just meekly flutter - oh no, not at all.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It is a musical melody that makes my heart </span>
  <em>
    <span>soar </span>
  </em>
  <span>- transcend beyond all comprehension and swim in a sea of pure ecstasy in hearing something so incredibly foreign on your tongue that reigns in such a familiar sense of home.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Ti amo, </span>
  </em>
  <span>too.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I love you, </span>
  <em>
    <span>anche</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Maya.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Inhaling deeply, I drag you in for another deep kiss and you oblige to with no form of protest, which was to be expected, naturally. As I do so, your hand moves up the side of my face and you run your fingers through my hair; the sensation of such - one of my favorites and one of yours, as well - sends chills up and down my spine. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When I try to mimic your small gesture, however, you break the kiss. You lean back, away from me.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Your hand grasps my wrist and pulls it just out of reach. I lean back slightly as well, putting a bit more distance between the two of us. My quizzacial, concerned look serves no purpose because you cannot bring yourself to look up at me. Your shaky and uneasy breathing signals that I did something wrong.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I do not know what it is.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>My concern grows.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As does the confusion.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Just like that: we are crashing back down to earth and all of its harsh realities in the midst of panic, again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It only took a second.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>One little motion.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And we are back </span>
  <em>
    <span>here</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It is a frank reminder of the work we have to do in order for us to feel.. normal again, that for now, for us, normal is just an illusion. There are </span>
  <em>
    <span>so many</span>
  </em>
  <span> little things that we need to relearn about each other all over again. We cannot just go back to normal.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That does not exist for us anymore.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So much for soaring..</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sorry,” I quickly and automatically apologize for having caused the sudden change, for making you feel suddenly uncomfortable. It is not what I want - far from it. I frown at the notion that I unintentionally caused this, as I lower my free hand from your face. My other remains in your light grip. For the moment, I keep it there. “I did not mean -” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m not used to it,” you interrupt halfway through my sentiment, tilting your head up just a bit in an attempt to look up at me, but it is futile. You cannot do it; it remains too difficult and your gaze stays cast downward. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sorry?” I repeat, eyebrows furrowing in my continued, further increasing confusion. Not used to what..? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“M-My..” you begin, but your voice trails off as you struggle to put thoughts into words. You take a deep breath, hold it for a moment, and then exhale. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Realizing what you are doing, I nod and speak softly, “Good, Maya. Focus.. Focus on me - just me.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Closing your eyes tightly as you continue to focus on your breathing and also my voice, you tilt your head up and slowly open them, again. When you meet my gaze, I offer a small reassuring smile and a half nod. I am still here. I am not leaving.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Thank you for letting me help you.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Just on me, </span>
  <em>
    <span>bella</span>
  </em>
  <span>, okay?” I say as you let go of my wrist at last. You are calming down a bit. It is beginning to work. “Breath in… and out. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Brava cosi’. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Good, Maya.”  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Very good - truly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Though..</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I take a quick glance at the coffee table, already bracing myself for a tiny bit of disappointment. The prescription bag from the previous day is no longer there. Of course it is not - it was a long shot to begin with anyway, I know. Although I am also hoping that it will not be necessary, knowing of its whereabouts may have proved useful.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A back up plan, if you will.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If this were to really go sideways.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When my attention falls back on you, and with a voice now steadier than what it was, you manage to start talking again, as brief as it is, “It’s short - </span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span> short.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Short. Okay. Your hair. We are talking about your hair. This was the trigger.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At least we are getting somewhere.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a nod, I show you that I am paying attention.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I am listening, Maya.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I am right here.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m not used to it.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> a big change, yes,” I agree. “But it is ok. It looks -” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I did it because of him,” you continue, interrupting once more as you again struggle to maintain eye contact with me, but you </span>
  <em>
    <span>do</span>
  </em>
  <span>. “He showed up at the station the day after the spaghetti dinner, I think it was, maybe? We got a call and, huh, he followed us to the scene. In front of everyone - the team and even civilians, he grabbed me by the ponytail and tried to pull me back-” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Maya,” I automatically react, breathlessly and unable to catch myself in time, to stop myself from saying anything. I reach for your hands, but you pull away - it is fine, I remind myself. It was almost expected; this is just how you react. You pull back. You keep to yourself. You have never had anyone there for you before.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Setting my own hands down in my lap and biting down on my lower lip, I try to keep myself from frowning, but I fail miserably. I cannot help it; my heart aches for you. You had been so adamant and you had stressed so hard that there was never any physical abuse.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Never</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And the thought of him putting his hands on you in such a way, it lights a fire in the pit of my stomach, fueled by a growing rage that I try to keep to myself. Me being angry is not going to help any. It is not going to solve anything.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But I can still </span>
  <em>
    <span>feel</span>
  </em>
  <span> it regardless.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You kind of nod, a bit aimlessly; you are now looking right through me - almost as if you were not even sitting here with me on this couch.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey,” I say, a bit stronger, and you come back to me. You focus. “It’s okay now. Nothing can hurt you now, Maya.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Took the pair of scissors from my office,” you murmur, swallowing hard. “And just.. right off.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That day at the hospital, when you found me in the courtyard with Teddy as we stood in line for the coffee cart, in need for what you all deem appropriate as a caffeine fix since I had not been sleeping well, I will admit: I did not recognize you as you walked past me. When you turned around, it took me by complete surprise, but I did my best to keep </span>
  <em>
    <span>that particular</span>
  </em>
  <span> emotion at bay. I was much more upset instead - upset that you would come to my place of work, upset that you were begging for my forgiveness, and upset that I immediately gave into you after everything. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>..we have </span>
  <em>
    <span>so</span>
  </em>
  <span> much to work through, Maya.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And I want to believe that we will - work through it all.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But that day at work in the courtyard, I remember you coming in for a kiss, just as I had asked you to do. I reached up to touch your hair, as I have often done so many times before in the past, and now.. now that I think a bit harder about that afternoon - you did not pull away from me, but I can now recall that your shoulders did tense up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You froze and, maybe, it was one of the things we were supposed to talk about between that moment in the courtyard and when you were rushed into the hospital after the house fire. I do not know for certain. There were many things we probably should have talked about in that time filled with rather awkward text messages and prolonged silence.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>We both went about things incorrectly during that time. I think we can both obviously see that now.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But at least we are finally talking about things?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I didn’t want.. I </span>
  <em>
    <span>don’t</span>
  </em>
  <span> want any reminder of that damn moment,” you mumble, shaking your head rapidly back and forth - an action that only lasts a moment. You wince in pain, but then press forward. “But I’m not used to not seeing it there and it </span>
  <em>
    <span>still</span>
  </em>
  <span> reminds me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What do you want me to do?” I ask gently and sincerely. “How can I help?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Because I am currently at a loss at how I can and that is something I can silently only admit to myself.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I…” you trail off, forcing yourself to look back up at me. You take another deep breath and steady yourself. “I have an appointment tomorrow morning with Doctor Lewis at the station - Andy was able to set it up last minute. Would you.. be willing to take me, maybe..?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course, </span>
  <em>
    <span>bella</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” I answer without a second thought - absolutely no issue with your request whatsoever. “You know that I want to help in any way that I can.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Drained and exhausted, you allow yourself to rest against the cushions of the couch, finally releasing the built up tension held in your shoulders which is followed by a heavy sigh. “Can we talk about something else, please? Anything else, Carina?” you practically beg.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Something else, anything else.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Yes, of course.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Quickly, I look around the living room for any inspiration - any distraction - and I come to a stop at the piece of art resting on the mantle of the fireplace: a promotional travel poster from decades ago now for the city of Rome with the Colosseum in the background.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Naturally, the Colosseum is the first thing most think about when anyone mentions Rome. It is also nearly the first thing some think about if you mention Italy in general.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>My first time over, when I initially spotted it, I excitedly asked if you have ever been, but you had not. It was just an art piece to help bring together the room, you explained before apologizing for the false pretense. It was all a coincidence. You had, however, one backpacked through Kathmandu in Nepal and you had also been to London, but that was the extent of your traveling abroad. You had only gone to London for the summer Olympics.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Silly me, I assumed you had gone to watch (which… did seem a bit extreme now that I think back), not to participate.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Leave it to me to pick up a former Olympic athlete at a bar (what were the odds?). You earned a gold medal in the 1000 meter sprint, you had said, rather proudly. It was your best time ever and on a sprained ankle, no less.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You and your parents had intentions to travel to Ireland, though, after the Olympics that summer - ancestral family ties “or whatever.” You really did not have a personal connection, but it would have been cool to see. The trip, however, never happened; an emergency brought you back to Seattle straight away.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And you have never been out of the country since.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Maybe one day you would make it over again, you mused, not one to really take vacations (at least, you </span>
  <em>
    <span>used</span>
  </em>
  <span> to be; the one you asked for us to go on took me by surprise). Maybe you would see Italy one day - you would like to, but.. you have work.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>My desire to go home is still there, maybe not as strong as it was yesterday when I was incredibly frustrated and nearly full on ready to board the next flight out, but that dreadful feeling still lingers: the homesickness. Yesterday’s outburst, I decide to keep to myself as there is no need to needlessly add any more worry to your already full plate.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But it does not do much to hinder my desire to be standing on the beach, taking in the warm sun and admiring the majestic sea.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The </span>
  <em>
    <span>sea</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I nearly jump out of my seat on the couch as the idea hits me and you out of your skin in sudden fright - entirely my fault. Immediately apologizing, I go to grab my phone from my purse on the armchair. Pulling up the website I have in mind, I return to you on the couch and hold out the screen for both our viewings.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What is this..?” you asked, confused. “Is that-” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The aquarium downtown. Yes, it is” I confirm. “They have live camera feeds in some of their animal exhibits and the sea otters are my favorite - they are </span>
  <em>
    <span>very </span>
  </em>
  <span>ridiculous.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, </span>
  <em>
    <span>they’re</span>
  </em>
  <span> ridiculous.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Looking up due to the teasing nature in your voice, I discover you gazing back with the widest of grins. Although you are picking on me - and I </span>
  <em>
    <span>know</span>
  </em>
  <span> that you </span>
  <em>
    <span>are</span>
  </em>
  <span> picking on me - I cannot bring myself to care much, not when I have already successfully pulled you away from that cloud of negative thoughts and self doubt. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“They </span>
  <em>
    <span>are</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” I stress, gesturing at the screen at the couple of otters swimming laps in their pool enclosure. The third otter is nowhere in sight. I hope the little guy is alright.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I.. may know these sea otters a little too well. I keep that bit of information to myself to keep the teasing from growing relentless.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re kinda adorable, I hope you know that,” you comment.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not as adorable as these guys,” I retort in all seriousness.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I mean, I think that’s a matter of opinion,” you counter, just as serious. “So, how’d you even come across this anyway? Googled ‘sea otter Seattle?’” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I give you a little shrug of the shoulders. “Whenever I am in a new city, one of the first things I check for is an aquarium and I went to the one here the same week I moved from Italy - also may have purchased a membership that same visit,” I admit. “I grew up surrounded by water - surrounded by the sea. It kind of makes sense, no? Anyway, it was either the second or third time I went that I noticed that they have these live feeds. They always put me in a better mood if I am not feeling well for whatever reason.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How did I not know this - the aquarium thing?” you ask. “And why haven’t we ever gone together?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Looking up, I match your slight confused, furrowed eyebrow gaze and I shrug my shoulders again, not really having an answer to give you. “I don’t know,” I reply honestly. “Should we..? Go some time?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Doctor DeLuca, are </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> asking </span>
  <em>
    <span>me</span>
  </em>
  <span> for a second date?” you ask, feigning shock. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Wrinkling my nose, I give you another small shoulder shrug. “I don’t know,” I lie. “Am I? Or, rather, </span>
  <em>
    <span>should</span>
  </em>
  <span> I?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, look, I feel that and I don’t blame you,” you say. “Lugging me around all over the place doesn’t sound like much fun, or much of a date either.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Then, when we can put all </span>
  <em>
    <span>this </span>
  </em>
  <span>behind us,” I state. There is a heaviness to the word </span>
  <em>
    <span>this</span>
  </em>
  <span>. It carries a daunting burden - a mountain of obstacles to overcome and they are not just your injuries, Maya. “We will go,” I promise.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll put it on our bucket list, then.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We have a bucket list?” I ask.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I mean,” you backtrack slightly. “I’d.. </span>
  <em>
    <span>like</span>
  </em>
  <span> for us to have a bucket list - if that’s still on the table at all.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Leaving the two otters momentarily forgotten, I nod and reassure, “I would like to have that, too, actually. Are there any other items you have on that list, maybe..?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I wanna kick a field goal at Centurylink Stadium,” you answer a bit </span>
  <em>
    <span>too</span>
  </em>
  <span> quickly. It is not an answer I was expecting. “Or even just throw a pass to whoever. It doesn’t even matter. I’ll do whatever they’ll let me do on that field.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Football</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” I groan in dismay, dramatically throwing my head back. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Ma, Dio mio, </span>
  </em>
  <span>why? You can </span>
  <em>
    <span>literally</span>
  </em>
  <span> do </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything</span>
  </em>
  <span> - it is a bucket list!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey!” you protest, mocking offense. “You </span>
  <em>
    <span>asked</span>
  </em>
  <span> and if you’d just let me teach you the rules, I could </span>
  <em>
    <span>finally</span>
  </em>
  <span> show you want a great sport it is-” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Uh, </span>
  <em>
    <span>assolutamente no -</span>
  </em>
  <span> the rules make no sense!” I cut you off, not allowing you to continue with this absolute nonsense. “If you want to speak of a great sport - an </span>
  <em>
    <span>actual</span>
  </em>
  <span> great sport, then we must talk about soccer-” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Soccer? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Soccer</span>
  </em>
  <span> is so </span>
  <em>
    <span>boring</span>
  </em>
  <span>!” you cry. “The legitimate </span>
  <em>
    <span>definition</span>
  </em>
  <span> of boring, Carina!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Boring</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” I repeat. “I am sorry, Maya, but have you </span>
  <em>
    <span>seen</span>
  </em>
  <span> a soccer match before? A </span>
  <em>
    <span>live</span>
  </em>
  <span> soccer match?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Have </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” you immediately challenge.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I am </span>
  <em>
    <span>Italian</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” I state firmly, not backing down.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s not a real answer,” you shoot back.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Ma invece si’, lo e’,”</span>
  </em>
  <span> I remark, smiling in disbelief. “Yes, it </span>
  <em>
    <span>is.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay, so, I’ll give you the coffee and I’ll give you the food,” you say, struggling to keep your laughter to yourself. “But I am </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> giving you this. Football is </span>
  <em>
    <span>better</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Agree to disagree?” I suggest, ready to put this ridiculous, never ending argument to bed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But you shake your head at me, not at all ready to give in. “Not when you’re so blatantly wrong about this one,” you tell me, firmly. I raise my eyebrows and I try not to allow my mouth to hang open. You will not budge on your position.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Neither will I, for that matter.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Too stubborn - the both of us - for our own good.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Then I propose a deal: you take me to a football match and </span>
  <em>
    <span>I</span>
  </em>
  <span> will take you to a soccer one - finally show you the error of your ways,” I offer.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You snort, but ultimately nod, “Okay, </span>
  <em>
    <span>fine</span>
  </em>
  <span>, if that’s what it takes to get you into Centurylink Stadium -- the aquarium is literally a mile away from it.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So two pigeons, one rock.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Birds. Stone.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Whatever</span>
  </em>
  <span> - you know, to the rest of the world, football </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> soccer,” I point out.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The rest of the world is wrong,” you grumble.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Spoken like a true American,” I tease.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I.. walked </span>
  <em>
    <span>straight</span>
  </em>
  <span> into that one,” you admit. “Hey, how are those sea otters of yours?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Oh, right.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Now who is distracting who?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Glancing down at my phone, I confirm, “They are still swimming around and doing otter related things.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Help me lay down and we can watch?” you ask, a bit sheepishly. Asking for help does not come easy, not for you, but you have also been placed in a position where it is rather unavoidable. “I’m starting to feel kind of sore.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nodding, I stand up and set my phone down on the coffee table with our drinks and snacks that are now pretty much forgotten. I help you up onto your good leg and you lean against me for support before going through the stretches you were instructed to do at the hospital. You wrap your non-bandaged arm around my neck and you hold on for what feels like dear life as I help you back down on the opposite end of the couch.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I do not blame you - a fall right now would not exactly be fun.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In a joint effort, we get your casted leg onto the cushions. You do your best not to grimace (from more so the ribs than anything else, if I were to guess) and I apologize thoroughly and repeatedly throughout the entire process.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Once you settle, I join, with phone in hand, as I carefully cuddle against you. Finally back in the place that I have missed terribly, I immediately feel myself relax.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“This is already so much better,” you sigh in relief, tilting your head to rest against mine. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I find myself agreeing. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Wholeheartedly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This is how we spend the rest of the afternoon, just lounging on the couch and enjoying each other’s company in mostly silence. We end up slipping in and out of random naps. At one point, I even grab the snacks per your request, not wanting either of us to get up - too comfortable. To your nearly uncontainable amusement, I settle for them being our “meal,” as even the idea of opening the door for a delivery person seemed as if it would be too much effort, let alone trying to cook something. We move on from the sea otter live feed to a horribly reviewed horror movie that you have been meaning to watch. The whole time, I wish we were still watching those otters, but I do not protest. I am just glad to be here on this couch with you - that this moment is even possible to begin with, not with how messy we left things just the day prior.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I am grateful for this.. incredibly lazy day.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For the fact that you are still even here.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For the chance that we have to try to fix us.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The following morning, I wake up feeling somewhat well rested - the first time in ages. You even agree. It is the most sound you had slept in a bit, too. Sleeping next to you is something I had grown accustomed to; I do not do well sleeping by myself and a teddy bear is not a great substitute, but the gesture is nice, I suppose.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After a quick breakfast and helping you wash up, I get you situated in the car and we head to the station. Had it not been for the soft Italian music playing through the bluetooth connection of my phone, the drive would have been completely silent. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When I pull up to the curb, we both hesitate. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“My first time back,” you murmur, staring out the passenger side window for a split second. Then you turn to me. “They’re gonna treat me differently. I don’t want to be treated differently.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Vic and Andy had no problem giving you a hard time from what you’ve told me,” I say. “Maybe everyone else will be the same?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Maybe…” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You are not convinced. Part of me wants to ask if you are ready for this, but I already know the answer - no, but we are going to have to do this regardless.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shifting the car into park and turning on the hazard lights, I unbuckle myself and let myself out of the driver’s side door. Hearing the passenger door open, I round the car and open the trunk to fetch the folded up wheelchair for you with a bit of struggle.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But hearing you groan, “fuck!” from inside the car causes me to pause at what I am doing at first and then immediate panic as my mind runs a bit wild. I would not put it past you to try to get out of the car by yourself - you </span>
  <em>
    <span>are</span>
  </em>
  <span> stubborn like that, even when we both know full well that is far from a possibility right now. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Merda</span>
  </em>
  <span>, I can already imagine you falling onto the sidewalk, too. Momentarily abandoning the task at hand, I take a step to the side to check if you are okay.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You are right where you should be - still sitting in the passenger seat.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What’s wrong? Did something happen?” I ask, coming to your side and looking you over. Everything </span>
  <em>
    <span>appears</span>
  </em>
  <span> to be fine.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, just, you know - one of my worst nightmares coming true is all,” you state matter of factly. “Except, no, this is </span>
  <em>
    <span>actually</span>
  </em>
  <span> worse because I </span>
  <em>
    <span>literally</span>
  </em>
  <span> can’t get away.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I do not follow. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Frowning and more than perplexed, I follow your gaze towards the building. That is when it all comes together and clicks. Standing in the entrance way, propping open the door, is Jack.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And he is starting to walk over this way.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Cazzo</span>
  </em>
  <span>, indeed.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Is this chapter slightly delayed because I spent too much time actually watching the live sea otter cam? Maybe. Maybe not. Who knows?</p>
<p>(There’s also a harbor seal live cam.)</p>
<p>Also, you KNOW there just HAD to be one last slight cliffhanger, right? :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. Chapter 18</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>“I love you, Carina.” <br/>“I love you, too, Maya.”</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I did not anticipate this chapter being up /this/ fast, buuuuuuut guess who had another internet outage due to an excessive heatwave/overloaded small town power grid? I don't know whether or not that's a good thing. My heart's beating so. fast. uploading this. Enjoy &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“Saw you pull up from the front desk,” he calls out as he starts taking the steps down towards us, gesturing with his thumb over his shoulder towards the station building. “Figured you could use a hand-” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We’re good, </span>
  <em>
    <span>thanks</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” I said bitterly with a dismissive wave, unable to keep the venomous bite out of my voice. Truth is, though, I did not even try and I would not have felt much remorse over it either, but I barely see you in my perphifical version: you are actually physically recoiling in the passenger’s side seat, as if trying to become one with the leather interior.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For your sake, I take a deep breath and try to calm the bubbling anger that steadily grows with each step he takes. Me getting visibly angry would not be beneficial to anyone, but more importantly: it would not be beneficial to </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Maya. Coming here today is already difficult enough without </span>
  <em>
    <span>this</span>
  </em>
  <span> situation.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So when he waltzes up to my car, insisting that we actually </span>
  <em>
    <span>do </span>
  </em>
  <span>need help and to </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> be ridiculous, I bite down hard on my lower lip, so hard I miraculously wonder how I do not manage to draw any blood in the process.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Turning on my heel, I quickly head back to the trunk of the car and grab the frame of the wheelchair once more. Refusing to wait for him, I brace myself against the car’s bumper and give a hefty pull, which finally sets it free. Snapping the wheelchair into place, I then realize that he did not even </span>
  <em>
    <span>bother</span>
  </em>
  <span> to help - was this all an empty gesture?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Doing a wheelie to get the chair onto the sidewalk curb, I turn to the passenger side to help you next.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then I realize what Jack meant by </span>
  <em>
    <span>help</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I got it, really” you protest, standing on your good leg as you hold the car door for balance. As he steps back and draws his grasp from under your arm away, he hovers over you. Immediate blind rage consumes my very being and my clutch on the chair tightens, causing my knuckles to go white. Blood boiling in a mixture of rage and jealousy, I clench my jaw, tightly, willing myself to not say a word.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Anything I say right now would make matters worse; I do not trust myself to </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> speak my mind and, well, my mind is not exactly in the best of places at the moment. Instead, I do my best to focus on my mantra that I tried to implement the last time I came face to face with him - the waiting room at the hospital where tensions were incredibly high:</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Calmati. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Rilassati. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Non fare niente</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Do not do anything. Do not react. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Or.. at least </span>
  <em>
    <span>try</span>
  </em>
  <span> not to.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>We are here for a reason and I believe we knew that there was a possibility of our paths crossing, not that we discussed its potential with each other; we left it unspoken - neither of us wanting to address it. It was just another thing to have to overcome. I just think neither of us expected for those paths to cross immediately upon arrival. Could we at least have gone through the front door before dealing with all this?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Pushing the wheelchair over to you and forcing him to take a further step back, I wonder if it is perhaps just a bit too much for the universe to have given us a break, even just a small one - over the course of the last few days, we have earned as much to say the very least.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At least, </span>
  <em>
    <span>I </span>
  </em>
  <span>firmly think so, anyway.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Here, let me-” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Got it</span>
  </em>
  <span>. No, </span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” I snap, locking the wheels into place and turning my back to him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This time,</span>
  <em>
    <span> I </span>
  </em>
  <span>am the one who hovers at your side as you carefully turn and slowly lower yourself into the chair.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You okay?” I ask gently.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>My only response is a silent nod.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So, I’ll help her on in and you can move the car then?” he suggests. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Cosa</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” I turn my head to look over my shoulder at him, frowning at his sudden proposal.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You can’t just leave it idling here - it’s not exactly legal, you know,” he points out and I hate the fact that he </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> right. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Allora</span>
  </em>
  <span>, I will get Maya inside and then move the car,” I counter, stubbornly, as I walk around you and grab the handles of the chair.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Or</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” he begins, tone a bit smug. “We can both be adults about this whole matter?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>My expression grows dark as I narrow my eyes at him. “Adults?” I repeat. “Hmm, like you were in the waiting room of the hospital?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You weren’t exactly great yourself either there, Doc,” he remarks, maintaining eye contact.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hang on,” you speak up. “What exactly happened at the hospital?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The stare down continues. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Your question goes unanswered.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I need to move the car,” I confirm, shaking my head as my gaze never falters.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll get you inside, Maya,” Jack responds, also not looking away. “Wouldn’t want to keep Doctor Lewis waiting any longer.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Silently cursing to myself, I force myself to be the first to move, to look away - as if this were a childish challenge to be won. Releasing my tight grasp, I turn around and walk away from you. I close the trunk and hear the passenger door do the same. As I slide back into the driver’s seat, I hear you ask for clarification before I shut the door (reminding myself </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> to slam it).</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>From the corner of my eye, I watch as he takes you towards the ramp, annoyed that it was not </span>
  <em>
    <span>me</span>
  </em>
  <span> and more than aware that I would not be behaving his way had it been anyone else on your squad to greet us. I hate that he brings out this behavior in me.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And, frankly, I hate that he is here.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But there is nothing to be done about that regard.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shifting into drive, I steer away from the curb and find a spot in the parking lot. I sit in complete stillness - complete silence - for a moment. In idle, if one will - no laws against that, not to my knowledge, anyway. It comes out of nowhere, the sudden eruption of anger that refuses to comply any longer.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The scream that attempts escape is guttural and muffled by clenched teeth. With an open palm, I smack the edge of the steering wheel, avoiding the horn, but still craving some form of release. Just as sudden as the anger manifested, a wave of shame replaces it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Guilt weighs heavily, reminding me that I am normally much better than this. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This is not who I am. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This is not me.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A pesky little voice from inside suggests that maybe it is and I just cannot bring myself to accept it as truth. With a defeated, weak cry that I try to disguise as a heavy sigh, I bury my face into my hands and close my eyes tightly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Calmati.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Rilassati.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Maybe I should wait here until your appointment is over - maybe it would be for the best, but when I go to get my phone out of my purse, I realize that I have yours as well. Now I remember you telling me that you would not need it and asking me to hang on to it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Throwing my head back, it hits the head rest with a soft thud. Aware that there would be no getting around this, I kill the engine before stepping out and locking up. This would only last an hour - not an eternity, though I do foresee it feeling as such.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Making my way back to the building, I pull the door open and step inside to find Jack returned to the front desk. He barely looks up from the computer monitor to acknowledge me. A ridiculous action that makes my skin crawl - it should not, as it truly does not matter, yet here we are regardless.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I already took her inside-” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You could not wait the two minutes it takes to park a car?” I bark, cutting him off.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He leans back in the office chair and folds his arms over his chest. This time, he looks right at me and then gestures to the clock on the wall. “You arrived late - not exactly fair to keep either of them waiting. We keep a tight ship around here, we have to.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Traffic-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No excuses,” Jack interrupts.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t like you,” I uncontrollably blur out.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The statement lingers in the air.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He speaks up after an awkward moment of silence, “Yeah, that’s pretty fair, considering I </span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span> haven’t given you much reason to.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That day in the waiting room-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Cool it, alright?” he butts in and I grow steadily more aggravated. Do </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> tell me what to do. Who gave him the right anyhow?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He adds, “Maya already gave me an earful.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good, then it is my turn,” I state. “It was not your place to do what you did.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know,” he agrees with a single nod. “But you also need to accept the fact that I care for her, too, and that’s not going to change. This whole team, actually. They’re my chosen family - not that you’d know anything about growing up in a broken one.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I narrow my eyes at him. “Do not assume I know nothing of broken families - actually, no, do not assume anything about me,” I warn.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Alright, then you’re not some top of your field doctor slash researcher who has made Maya happier than I’ve ever seen her - got it, Doc,” he concludes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It leaves me at a loss for words.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You know, it’s kinda obvious - you’d be blind not to see it, actually: how in love she is with you,” he goes on. “Though, if that’s another assumption, I can keep it to myself, too.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>My jaw clenches and I swallow hard.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Gli sconosciuti si accorgono che vi amate.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I do not want to talk about this,” I say, shaking my head. Especially not with him of all people.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good!” a new voice excitedly erupts and I nearly jump out of my skin. Suddenly, Vic is at my side - I did not see or hear her approach, nor do I have any idea where she came from. Judging Jack’s face, he is in the same boat.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Vic takes me by the elbow and begins to take me away from the front reception area. “Welcome back to the station,” she says. “Have you seen </span>
  <em>
    <span>anywhere</span>
  </em>
  <span> but here? Let me show you </span>
  <em>
    <span>anywhere</span>
  </em>
  <span> but here.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She leads me to the island in the middle of the beanery where we find Andy pouring three mugs of American coffee. I take the one she offers me and then she apologizes, “I wasn’t thinking when I gave out duties at the start of shift.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We drew straws,” Vic states, grabbing her own mug. “No one ever wants front desk.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You could’ve taken one for the team, you know, Hughes,” Andy retorts.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Or</span>
  </em>
  <span>, you could’ve remembered, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Stand-In-Captain</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” she shoots back before taking a small sip, though she quickly sets the mug down. “Speaking of remembering - I gotta grab something. Be right back!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After she vanishes, I turn to Andy and reassure her, “Don’t worry about it. We sort of anticipated something.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How are you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In order to buy myself a bit of time, I take a sip of what is trying to be passed as coffee before giving her a small shrug. “Okay, I guess - we both know we both have a long way to go, so… that is a good place to start, no?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, it is,” she agrees. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thank you, by the way.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“For…?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“For only </span>
  <em>
    <span>holding</span>
  </em>
  <span> onto my key,” I clarify.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No worries,” Andy says with a grin that lessens after a thought. “Shit, I </span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span> do need to give mine back soon.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Let’s wait until Maya makes a full recovery,” I suggest. When a worrisome look crosses her face, I immediately explain, “Not because of - no! For when I have to go back to work and incase she needs help-” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, got it! Good plan.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Back!” Vic announces, again at my side and again I nearly jump. She immediately apologizes and slides a strange looking box in front of me. “Maya texted me the other day about this - asked if I would do her a favor. Confirmed it was definitely a go this morning, so…” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I slowly read off the box, “Build a Bear.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Umm, shouldn’t we wait for Maya maybe?” Andy suggests.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But Vic shakes her head in response. “Actual Captain’s orders - to be opened</span>
  <em>
    <span> while</span>
  </em>
  <span> she’s in her session,” she informs. “Girl can’t handle sentiment very well.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With permission granted, I unfold the opening of the box and pull out a stuffed cat plush toy dressed in blue scrubs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I was given some pretty strict orders: cat with pink cribs, but blue is also kinda acceptable-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I absolutely love it,” I assure, my voice cracking as I hold out the stuffed animal.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You, uh, should try giving its chest a squeeze,” Vic suggests, gesturing to the toy.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I do as I am instructed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And suddenly, your own voice comes from the cat - a very clear, but slightly accented </span>
  <em>
    <span>Ti amo, Carina</span>
  </em>
  <span>. I instantly pull the plush to the my chest and hug it tightly. My heart swells with such emotion; I close my eyes when I feel them beginning to sting.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I absolutely love it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I absolutely love </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Maya.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Like I said,” Andy begins. “Although the excursion may suck sometimes, when she gets it right-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“She </span>
  <em>
    <span>truly</span>
  </em>
  <span> gets it right,” I finish.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Firefighter Bear definitely doesn’t do that,” Vic grumbles and I cannot help but laugh. “Didn’t think that one through.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For the next hour, they stay with me and make small talk. Some of the other members of your squad drop in and out as well - I finally get to formally meet your colleagues outside of the hospital, nor are we distracted by the outcome of the fire. I also finally get to put faces to names. They each tell me little stories involving you, some I tuck away in my back pocket to ask you about later.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At the end of the session, Vic takes me back to the reception area, where I already find you waiting. The front desk is thankfully empty. With a rather sheepish smile, you gesture towards the box I am carrying.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s the best thing ever,” I declare before you can say anything. “You are the best.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And it is.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So incredibly thoughtful.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, I’m nothing compared to you,” you admit.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay, we </span>
  <em>
    <span>get</span>
  </em>
  <span> it!” Vic says. “You love each other.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>L’amore e’ quella cosa…</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With the help from Vic, we wheel you to my parking spot and, with a bit of team effort, we get you back into the passenger seat. You offer to hold onto the box - precious cargo and all that, you tease. AFter helping fold the chair and getting it into the trunk without scratching my bumper, Vic heads back into the building. I take my spot in the driver’s seat.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Before I start the car, I turn to you and ask, “How did it go?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You fiddle with the top flaps of the box. “Pretty well, actually,” you reply sincerely, looking over at me. “She wants me to see someone more regularly - gave me a list of potential names to look into.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And what do you think? Could this be something beneficial maybe?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I think.. It could be incredibly beneficial maybe,” you answer, nodding. “I’m going to start poking around when we get home - the sooner I give her a name, the sooner I can get a referral and get in. I don’t know, I’m thinking something weekly.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nodding along with you, I assure, “That sounds really great, Maya.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You flash me a small smile.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Turning my attention back to the steering wheel, I press down on the break and go to start the engine. You speak up again, however, bringing my action to an instant pause.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m sorry, “ you apologize. “For having to deal with the waiting room and now this morning - he crossed a major line.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>My shoulders fall slightly and I sigh. Ah yes. All that nonsense. “I heard you told him off - sorry I missed it,” I comment.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Heard you did the same,” you reply.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I nod my confirmation, but then wrinkle my nose as I give it a second though. “I.. may have called him something I am unable to accurately translate,” I admit. “If I had to compare, I would say it is in the field of ‘asshole.’ Not my finest moment.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ballpark,” you correct. “In the ballpark of, but I enjoy the fact that you’re thinking about football.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Soccer is </span>
  <em>
    <span>also</span>
  </em>
  <span> played on a field,” I point out.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You laugh, but quickly grow serious once more. “I, uh, I told him that </span>
  <em>
    <span>this</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” you say, gesturing back and forth between the two of us. “What goes on between the two of us, it’s just </span>
  <em>
    <span>us</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Our problems are ours to handle and deal with.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thank you for that, really,” I tell you, sincerely. “And you were able to tell him that as eloquently, I assume?” I tease lightly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, not at all,” you quickly confess, shaking your head. “Didn’t even try when he told me how he behaved at the hospital.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>My statement trying to downplay the gravitas of the situation is drowned out by sudden sirens. Heads snapping up, we witness the fire truck and the PRT unit peel out from the station. I hear you sigh heavily.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You will be back before you know it,” I try to comfort.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not soon enough,” you murmur, leaning against the door. You rest the side of your head against the window.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You love your job; you are very passionate about helping people. You are also one of the most - if not the most - active person I know. Being benched like this, it is not going to be easy. I reach out and take your hand into mind, lacing my fingers with your own. When I give you a gentle squeeze, you return the small gesture. With a faint smile, I bring your hand up to my face and I place a gentle kiss on the back of it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Casa</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” you ask, turning to me.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>A casa</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” I repeat, with a nod. “Look at you picking up all these words.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sitting around is </span>
  <em>
    <span>boring</span>
  </em>
  <span>, so.. I downloaded this language learning app and I started messing around,” you say, shrugging your shoulders slightly. “Figured, might as well, right?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Wait, really?” I ask, unable to contain my growing smile.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You nod, “I have a </span>
  <em>
    <span>very</span>
  </em>
  <span> pissed off passive aggressive owl emailing me to </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> miss a lesson today - very serious business.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Grazie, amore..</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, yeah - pasta sauce.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Excuse..me?” I furrow my eyebrows.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Prego</span>
  </em>
  <span> - you’re welcome, right?” you clarify. “Like the popular pasta sauce company.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tilting my head at you, I point out, “I </span>
  <em>
    <span>make</span>
  </em>
  <span> all my sauces myself - they should </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>come from a company.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“All these food rules,” you whine, throwing your head back dramatically as I finally start the car in order to take us home.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Staying home proves to be a bit difficult at first, especially with your limited mobility in the first couple of weeks, but once the skin graft on your arm heals and the pain from the broken ribs lessens, we test out crutches.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And having that sense of mobile freedom, even just a tiny bit of it, improves your mood. You tell me that you will never take moving from the kitchen table to the living room couch by yourself for granted ever again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I will not lie either: it also makes me feel a bit more comfortable to go back to work in person. A bit. I get into the terrible habit of continuously checking up on you though, which you deal with - consistently reassuring me that you have </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> fallen on the floor.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>One time you text the word ‘again’ and I nearly drop everything to come home.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You quickly learn that maybe your well being is not something to joke about.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Soon after discovering that crutches were finally a viable option, Andy stops by with an invitation for you that was dropped off at the station - the memorial for the little girl.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You go back and forth on the decision whether or not to go for a couple days. You convince yourself that you should, but you talk yourself out of it before persuade yourself again that maybe you need to be there. It is a vicious cycle - one that you take to your newly matched therapist.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In the end, you decide to attend and I go with you per your request. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And last minute, you decide to not wear your dress uniform, claiming you would not be able to handle the unwanted attention.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>We sit in the back corner of the church and try to keep to ourselves during the service. The entire time, I hold you hand in comfort; the entire time, you remain stoic. The family finds you after and thanks you for risking your life. You apologize for not being able to do more for them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The entire car ride back to the apartment, you stay silent and I do not try to engage in conversation. The music stays off; it does not feel appropriate. When you stay rather quiet during most of dinner, too, I begin to worry that you are falling back into the old habits you are working so hard to unlearn.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I do not know what else to do than to be here for you, Maya.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But when you speak up, that is when I realize this is not you going back into your old ways. You have been thinking - trying to come up with an idea.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And it strikes you in the middle of our Chinese take-out dinner at the kitchen table.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“A mobile fire experience unit,” you proclaim out of the blue. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stopping mid-bite, I lower my chopsticks back into the take-out container and tilt my head to the side. You see my confusion, but when you continue, no clarification is really offered. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“If Warren can have a mobile operating room, then I want a mobile fire,” you say.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I.. am not following,” I confess.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We go around with the truck to elementary schools: show the kids the sirens, let them climb all over it, and just let them know there’s nothing to be scared of when we come around - the full gear with the mask can be kinda scary looking when you’re like.. five or whatever,” you explain.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nodding along, I try to ignore the image of you interacting with small children in all your gear, but I fail a bit miserably. My heart melts.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And we make stops in their classrooms,” you go on. “Give a presentation about what to do in case they are in a fire, but maybe that’s the problem - that in the heat of the moment, they don’t remember because we just </span>
  <em>
    <span>tell</span>
  </em>
  <span> them? What if we could </span>
  <em>
    <span>show</span>
  </em>
  <span> them?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“A.. mobile fire,” I say.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“A mobile fire experience,” you correct. “No actual fire involved - that would be ridiculous.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ah. Yes, of course,” I agree. “So, what are you thinking?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You shake your head slightly, trying to conjure up an image as you poke at your fried rice. “Something that we can either tow from location to location, or physically drive itself,” you explain. “Where inside we can have a staged bedroom of sorts, maybe? Where we are able to replicate smoke filling the room and the door getting hot - we could walk the kids through it step by step instead of </span>
  <em>
    <span>just</span>
  </em>
  <span> telling them.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s.. a brilliant idea, Maya,” I comment, watching you light up as you talk and keep thinking.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I need to talk to Warren about a presentation and get feedback from the rest of the team, but if this thing can help even just </span>
  <em>
    <span>one</span>
  </em>
  <span> other kid from blanking or hiding during an actual fire-” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It will have been worth it,” I conclude. “You are </span>
  <em>
    <span>amazing</span>
  </em>
  <span>, you know that?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This idea, it proves to be useful over the rest of your recovery - it gives you something to focus on, something to do that helps you feel more productive. The remaining weeks, they fly by. When the cast finally comes off, you nearly jump for joy. The physical therapy, you take seriously, per your actual doctors and my own orders. We stress that you cannot just jump right back in at 100%; you need to take this slow. You cannot push yourself beyond your limit - you will hurt yourself. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If you hurt yourself, you delay returning to work.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And you wanted to get back to work.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You have people to help.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So, you let the necessary people help you, too. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You keep up with actual therapy, also. You fall into a weekly schedule that you strictly adhere to. At one point, you even ask if I would come to one of your sessions - that there were some things you want to say and share. Without a second thought, I accept and in that hour you truly open up and, well, I find myself doing exactly the same: we discuss the elephant in the room; we start to move on.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Based on that afternoon alone, soon after, I decide to find my own therapist and I begin to finally process my own concerns and insecurities that have followed me since childhood.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It is all because of you, Maya.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You make me better, too.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When you get your return date to work, the day prior we keep our promise to each other: to celebrate the end of the rollercoaster that had been the last few months. No more live cam feeds. We go see those adorable little three sea otters in person.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I gasp when we approach their pool and lean over to get a better view of them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What’s up?” you ask, coming up behind me. You perch right next to me.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“There’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>four</span>
  </em>
  <span> of them now,” I grin, pointing each individual out, rather giddy about the discovery. “Oh, look how </span>
  <em>
    <span>cute</span>
  </em>
  <span>!” I accidentally squeal and, well, I kind of do not care.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You laugh lightly before commenting, “I think </span>
  <em>
    <span>this</span>
  </em>
  <span> view is kinda cuter.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When I turn to you, our gaze meets. You are staring. I shake my head. “You are--” but before I could finish my sentence, before I could say that you are ridiculous, you quickly come in and steal a kiss. I do not protest.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>We both return our attention to the sea otters. You lean into me and rest the side of your head on my shoulder. Automatically, I rest my own against yours and begin to share random facts about these little guys. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And when I run out of facts to share, you conclude that </span>
  <em>
    <span>this</span>
  </em>
  <span> is much better than watching from a tiny screen.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I think so, too.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Come on,” I say, standing up straight. “There’s one more place I wanna show you here - it’s my favorite.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I thought these guys were your favorite?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“One of my favorites,” I correct, taking your hand and leading you back into the building. This is essentially how our afternoon went: me telling me that exhibit a, b, and c were my favorite and me pulling you along by the hand. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You do not seem to mind.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I lead us through a short tunnel and then we step into the Underwater Dome - a 360 aquarium with layered seating for viewing. In a moment of complete rarity: the exhibit is currently empty of other aquarium visitors. It is all ours.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ooh! A </span>
  <em>
    <span>shark</span>
  </em>
  <span>!” you exclaim in a child-like wonder that makes me smile widely to the point where my cheeks almost begin to hurt. Letting go of my hand, you nearly </span>
  <em>
    <span>run</span>
  </em>
  <span> up to the glass where the dogfish, among many other fish, swim by.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I </span>
  <em>
    <span>know</span>
  </em>
  <span>!” I reply, matching your energy and bouncing along right behind you. “There’s another one,” I point out in the distance as we almost press up against the glass.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay, this is actually </span>
  <em>
    <span>pretty</span>
  </em>
  <span> cool,” you admit.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Taking a couple of steps back, I sit down on the bench directly behind us and lean back against the railing. Crossing my leg over the other, I watch you admire all the varieties of sea life. Pretty cool exhibit indeed - one of a kind, if I recall from the pamphlet I read during my first ever visit.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And this is the first time I have ever seen it empty.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I do not know how long we would get to enjoy it solely by ourselves.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After a moment, you join me on the bench and snake your hand into mine on my lap. Still watching the fish swim by, spotting an occasional shark, I quietly say, “</span>
  <em>
    <span>L’amore è quella cosa che tu sei da una parte, lei dall’altra, e gli sconosciuti si accorgono che vi amate.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You know I can finally pick out </span>
  <em>
    <span>some</span>
  </em>
  <span> words?” you say rather proudly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That passive aggressive owl deserves some credit, then, no?” I tease.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Maybe just a little,” you agree. “I think I got the first part kinda down.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But I think </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> should tell me - so I can double check,” you insist. “Obviously.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Obviously</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” I reply with a short laugh before complying. “Okay, so it is a rough translation - nothing sounds as romantic as Italian-” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, I can agree to that,” you state.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So, umm, love is that thing,” I begin, furrowing my eyebrows as I keep watch on the fish as I work through the two languages. “Where.. you are in one part - or area? Anyway, where you are in one part and she is in another -- and strangers realize that you two love each other.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There is a pause - a moment of silence - before I feel you give my hand a gentle squeeze. When I look over to you, I see you nod. You narrow your eyes slightly and your lips thin prior to you speaking.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I love you, Carina.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I love you, too, Maya.” </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>And here we are at the end..<br/>(Before I get sappy, I just wanted to note: I know that the mobile unit Maya describes in this chapter is a real thing, but for the sake of storytelling… Let’s just.. go with it.)</p>
<p>Writing this story was a trip. Initially, this was only supposed to be a one-shot where it was up to the reader to decide Maya’s fate (I wasn’t going to say one way or another). And THAT one-shot was only going to be a thing because I randomly wrote the first two sentences of chapter one and thought they were awesome opposites of each other. This wasn’t supposed to be a multi-chapter fic; I swore I wouldn’t write a multi-chapter fic. I hardly ever finish them and I find them so incredibly daunting because I’m also not writing in my native language.</p>
<p>This was honestly a great exercise in storytelling from a 1st person point of view. Your writing is limited to the pov and knowledge of the situation based on the character you’re working with at the moment. I really nerded out over this process to writer friends. It was challenging, but it was also a lot of fun (though I’m also really looking forward to writing 3rd person pov next).</p>
<p>Thank you so much for reading; for enduring all the angst and terrible cliffhangers I threw at you that y’all SO enjoyed; and for all the support you’ve given this story. If you’ve interacted with it in any way - kudos and/or comments - know that you were part of the impetus of its continuation.</p>
<p>I’m going to continue writing one-shots here and there in the Marina fandom. I may flesh out some little throw away plots that I’ve mentioned throughout this story (like the Maya-doing-push-ups-with-a-half-naked-Carina-on-top-of-her one shot). If there was something mentioned anywhere in these chapters that you would like to see more of, def let me know. If you have other prompts in general, I’m down, too. I semi hang out over on Tumblr with the same username as here - come say hi. :)</p>
<p>Grazie di cuore and until next time &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote><div class="children module" id="children">
  <b class="heading">Works inspired by this one:</b>
  <ul>
    <li>
        <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25740886">Sunday Best</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/KyHasNoLife/pseuds/KyHasNoLife">KyHasNoLife</a>
    </li>
  </ul>
</div></div></div>
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